


Bad Things

by miss_grey



Series: Emissary [1]
Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Murder House, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU after 3b, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood Kink, Dark Stiles, Don't try this at home kiddos, Emotional Manipulation, Fucked Up Shit, Haunting, Home Invasion, Homophobic Language, Horror, I guess technically underage?, M/M, Masochism, Murder, Nogitsune Trauma, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Sadism, Self-Harm, They're both 17, Torture, liberal use of an axe, one's a ghost tho..., post 3b, seriously this is the most fucked up thing i've ever written be prepared, seriously... so fucked up, tate is such a creeper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 23:37:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 25,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6541414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the traumatizing events with the Nogitsune, Sheriff Stilinski decides that Stiles needs some time away from Beacon Hills to recuperate, so he moves them to a house in LA, away from all the bad memories.<br/>Unfortunately for them, they move into the Murder House, haunted by restless spirits, the worst of which is that of a disturbed teenage boy named Tate.</p><p>What happens when Tate Langdon meets and begins to fixate on  the still fragile Stiles Stilinski?<br/>Sanity starts slipping away and they invite each other's darkness out to play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sunshinedaisysbuttermellowyellow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunshinedaisysbuttermellowyellow/gifts).



> The result of conversations between Sunshinedaisysbuttermellowyellow and me.

 

 

 

Deaton folded his arms across his chest and spoke in whispered tones to Sheriff Stilinski, while he watched Stiles’ still, hunched form on the other side of the examination room.  “He can’t stay here, Sheriff.  You know that.”

“Where else are we gonna go?  This is our home!  I’m the sheriff!”

“I understand that.  But what happened to Stiles… traumatic doesn’t even begin to describe what he’s been through.  He’s been possessed by an ancient evil that used him to do… terrible things.  To people he loved.”  Deaton lowered his voice further.  “Allison is dead.”  Deaton turned to look at Stiles, who still hadn’t moved.  “He needs time to heal.  And he can’t do that here.”

“I don’t… I don’t know what to do.  I’ll be honest, doc.  I need help.”

Deaton smiled softly, always so full of understanding.  “Then I’ll help you.  And I’ll help Stiles, when he’s ready.”

“Alright.  Where do we start?”

“First you have to get him out of Beacon Hills.”

“I have a friend on the force in L.A.”  Sheriff Stilinski murmured, glancing back at his son.

“I think that’s a good place to start.”


	2. Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't guessed yet, this story is going to be really fucked up. I'm not sorry.

 

 

Tate watched from the shadows as the good officer carried another box into the house.  He seemed like a solid, stable fellow.  Not too happy, but not too stern, either.  But first impressions rarely meant anything, and anyway, Tate really didn’t like cops.

The boy that followed was different.  He was tall and lean, fit like a runner.  Built a lot like Tate himself, actually.  He was smiling and fresh looking in jeans and a hoodie with the sleeves rolled up.  He spoke with his father in laughing tones as he helped to carry things into the silent, waiting house.

The others were probably watching, too.  Watching and waiting, as if a collective breath held expectantly for what was inevitably to come. 

Just before the young man walked into the house, he paused and looked up at the bedroom window where Tate stood, almost as if he could see him.  His eyebrows furrowed for just a second, and then he rolled his shoulders back and carried on.

Tate could see his soul, all the way from here.  He was solid.  Honest, strong, and full of light.  Beautiful.

Tate was going to destroy him, and he was going to love every minute of it.


	3. Rowan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *laughs forever*

 

 

Officer Stilinski wasn’t home much.  He often worked late, and didn’t come home until the early hours of the morning.  And then he slept, or didn’t.  Sometimes he just poured himself a drink and brooded over paperwork.  Pictures from crime scenes.  Pieces of evidence, bagged.  Likely moved without permission from the station.  It’d be a damn shame if any of that ever went missing under the Officer’s watch.

Stiles went to school, and then he came straight home every single day.  He spent his evenings on the phone talking to his friends from his old home—people named Scott and Lydia, mostly.  He was still pissed about having to move.  He said so, over and over again.  Something really bad had apparently happened that prompted Officer Stilinski to accept a transfer in order to get Stiles out of Beacon Hills, which was a little town somewhere up in the northern part of the state.  Whatever.  LA was better, and everyone knew it.  Still, Stiles didn’t seem to think so, and he apparently hadn’t made any new friends yet.

Tate decided it was best not to reveal himself.  Better, instead, to watch and learn.  Get to know the boy and his father.   He wasn’t very impressed by the older man, but then, Tate was big enough to admit he had parental issues.  Stiles, though, was very interesting.

Stiles liked to talk about weird shit with his friends.  Shit that intrigued Tate and made him believe that there was hope for a real, genuine friendship there.  He talked about werewolves and witches, and demons. Magic.  Ghosts.  Things that most people figured was bullshit, or bed time stories at the best.

 

 

Stiles had trouble sleeping at night.  He tossed and turned, flinging his arms and legs around like he was trapped in an endless battle.  He moaned and whined, panting heavily while he drowned in his own helplessness.  Chants of “Scott!” and “Lydia!” and a ton of other names that Tate could only half understand.  Each night, Stiles would wake in his own sweat, pull himself up and stare into the darkness for an hour or so, and then go back to sleep.

Tate liked to watch him sleep.  He learned a lot that way.  Stiles was beautiful, but he was more than that.  Tate figured that he and the other boy probably had a whole lot in common.  Now Tate was just curious to find out how much.

He revealed himself slowly.  At first, it was flashes, right after Stiles woke in the middle of the night.  Tate would stand at the foot of the boy’s bed and allow himself to be seen, just for a second, when Stiles was still in the place between waking and sleep.  Once, Stiles jerked in surprise, but then he relaxed, seeming to brush it off as part of his dream.

Over the next week, as Stiles settled into the house and his new routine, Tate made a habit of showing himself in the reflections of mirrors, or windows, or just at the edge of sight, for a fraction of a second.  Just enough to get Stiles wondering, questioning.  But Stiles wasn’t stupid.  He knew there was something… different… about the house.  He seemed to hear the others, when they were feeling riled up.  He carried himself in a way that showed awareness, but he didn’t seem to be overly bothered by the fact that the house might be haunted. 

The twins liked to open all the cupboards whenever Stiles was in the kitchen making his dinner.  He never said a thing about it.  Just went back through the room, shutting them methodically, before he continued cooking.

Whenever the gay couple started arguing, loud enough to shake the walls, Stiles just plugged in his headphones and carried on with his homework.

 

 

 

Stiles carried a strange charm around with him.  It was a rosary of sorts that he alternately wore, and sometimes carried in his pocket.  Once, Tate caught the other boy sitting at his desk, counting the wooden beads as they slipped through his fingers.  He seemed solemn that day, sort of tired.  Tate stood in the corner, transfixed, watching as the other boy contemplated his rosary, when the sound of Stiles’ voice broke the silence.  “You might as well show yourself.  I know you’re there.”

Tate jerked, surprised, and looked around.  There was no one besides the two of them.  He thought about his next move for a moment.  He could continue to hide, and pretend that he hadn’t heard.  Or, he could reveal himself to Stiles and take his chances.

Tate allowed the air to shift around him, and he decided he wanted himself to be seen.  He folded his arms over his chest and regarded the other boy suspiciously, with an eyebrow cocked.

Stiles paused in his counting, his thumb hovering over one of the wooden rosary beads.  “So who are you?”

Tate swallowed and shifted nervously on his feet.  He shouldn’t be nervous.  After all, Stiles was just another fucking kid, but he didn’t wanna blow this chance.  “I’m Tate.  I used to live here.”

Stiles nodded.  “So you’re a ghost, huh?”

Tate shifted.  “Yeah, I guess.  Doesn’t that… doesn’t that bother you?”

Stiles shrugged.  “Are you the one that’s been watching me sleep?”  Tate kept a blank face, but apparently the officer’s son could see through it.  “That’s pretty creepy, dude.  Why?”

Tate looked away.  “You’re new.  I was curious.”

“Learn anything interesting?”

Tate glanced back, given hope by the intrigue he detected in the boy’s voice.  “You have nightmares a lot.  But… weird things don’t seem to scare you.”  He motioned to himself.  “Case in point.”  He took a cautious step forward.  “You’re different.”

Stiles shrugged, and recommenced his silent counting.  “You’re not the first ghost I’ve met.  Neither are the others.” He stood, and Tate was surprised to find how close they were in size, now that they could really get a good look at each other.  “To be honest, I’ve dealt with a lot worse than this before.”

Tate wanted to ask, he was so damn curious, but he kept himself in check.  There would be plenty of time for that, later.  So instead, he nodded toward the rosary and said “What’s that?”

Stiles glanced down at it, almost as if he’d forgotten he held it.  “It’s a rosary a friend gave to me.  Made of rowan wood.  Keeps the monsters away.”

“Ghosts too?”

Stiles smiled, just slightly.  “Ghosts too.  So, what do you want?  All the creeping around is getting weird.”

“Would you believe me if I said I was just really bored?”

“Yeah, probably.  There’s not a lot to do in this place.  Are you stuck here?”

“Yeah.  I can move around, but…I can’t leave the house.”

“Since when?”

Tate laughed, and looked away.  “1994.”

Stiles whistled.  “That’s a long time.  So… what?  You want to live vicariously through me?”

Tate laughed, and it felt good.  It had been so long.  “That’s pretty forward, don’t you think?  I thought we could start with a discussion of your terrible taste in music.”


	4. 1994

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I recently heard the song for the first time, and it was too perfect to pass up.

 

 

 

“No way, man.”  Stiles said, rocking his chair back on two feet.  “Grunge was way over-rated.”

Tate cocked his head and folded his hands in his lap.  The comforter on Stiles’ bed was actually pretty soft and comfortable underneath him.  “Kurt Cobain is a genius.”

“Was,” Stiles corrected.  “He’s dead, you know.  Blew his brains out… also 1994.”

Tate frowned.  “That’s… upsetting.”  But then he shrugged.  “But I guess I can’t blame the guy.  It can be a filthy Goddamn world.”

“Yeah.”  Stiles admitted, rocking the chair down onto all four feet again.  “Sometimes it can be a bit much.”

“So, if you don’t like Nirvana, what do you listen to… besides that terrible pop bullshit.”

Stiles shrugged. “Ever heard of Halsey?”

“No.  Who is he?”

“She.  There’s this one song I found recently.  Listen….”  Stiles flipped his laptop open and pulled up his music.  A very haunting melody began to play, and then an ephemeral voice sang:

_“I paced around for hours, on empty,_

_I jumped at the slightest of sounds,_

_And I couldn't stand the person inside me  
I turned all the mirrors around…”_

Stiles smiled softly.  “The song’s called ‘Control.’  You like it?”

 _“And all the kids cried out,_  
_"Please stop, you're scaring me"_  
 _I can't help this awful energy_  
 _Goddamn right, you should be scared of me_  
 _Who is in control?”_

Tate closed his eyes and allowed the words to flow through him.  “Yeah, I think I do.”

 

 

 

 

“So, what’s your story?”  Stiles asked, from where he reclined on his bed. 

Tate twisted around in the desk chair.  “What do you mean?”

“How’d you die?”

Tate shrugged.  “I don’t remember.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes toward the ceiling.  “Really?”

“Things are different when you’re dead,” Tate growled.  “We don’t get to have all the answers.”

“Fine, relax,” Stiles murmured, “it was just a question.”

“You have school in the morning, don’t you?”

Stiles turned his head to look at the other boy.  “Did you really just say that to me?”  He laughed.  “Wow.  Alright.  It’s bed time.  Noted.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Whatever, you could have just said you didn’t want to talk about it.  You didn’t have to be a dick.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Fuck off.”

A second later, Stiles was alone in his room.  Like… really alone.  For the first time since moving into the house, he actually felt… alone.

 

 

 

 

That night, like every other night, Stiles had the dream again.  He was running down a darkened hallway, and something was chasing him.  It was gaining on him.  No matter how fast he moved, he wasn’t fast enough.  His hands were covered in blood, and he just _knew_ that his friends were dead.  Scott, and Lydia, and Allison.  He screamed, but it came out as a laugh.  He held his breath, terrified, and turned to face his attacker.  His own dark eyes looked back at him, and he smiled.

Stiles jerked awake, covered in his own sweat.  The blonde-haired, dark-eyed young man stood at the end of his bed, as had become his custom.  “Tate.”  Stiles panted.

“You were having another nightmare.”  Tate said, unhelpfully.  “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”  Stiles pushed himself up to lean against his headboard.  He eyed the other boy.  “What are you doing here?”

“I was worried about you.”

Stiles laughed, but it was a dark sound.  “Worried about _me_?”

“Yes.”

“People don’t worry about me.  That’s not what they do, okay?  I’m the one who worries.  I’m the one who is always okay.”

“And are you?  Okay, I mean?”

“I’m fine.”

They stared at each other in the darkness for a moment, before Tate disappeared.  It took Stiles a long time before he was able to fall back asleep.


	5. Sweet Dreams Are Made of This...

 

 

He’d killed a lot of people.  No, that wasn’t right.  Not… _him._ It wasn’t him that had done it.  The Nogitsune had killed a lot of people.  It had snuffed lives and created chaos and destroyed for the sake of destroying.  But Stiles was the one who could still feel the blood on his hands, the one who still had nightmares about all of the things that the Nogitsune had done using his body.  Stiles was the one who could still remember all the pain he’d caused his friends, and the way they’d screamed in agony.  He remembered plunging a blade through Scott, and then turning it just so that it would hurt more.  He remembered the way that Allison fell.  He remembered being trapped in his own mind, in his own personal Hell.  He remembered clawing at cold brick walls in a basement where no one could hear him screaming.  He remembered something that felt like dying.  And he remembered dying, too.

He couldn’t blame his dad, not really.  He was just pissed that it had taken his dad this long to believe him, to believe everything that was happening in Beacon Hills.  It took Stiles becoming… that _thing_ for his dad to wake up.

Stiles didn’t blame any of them.  He was worse than he let on, after all.  They thought he was depressed, and suffering from trauma because of the possession, and what the Nogitsune had done.

What he didn’t tell them was that sometimes, he still couldn’t tell the difference between dream and reality.  Sometimes, in the middle of class, he looked down and saw blood on his hands.  Sometimes, he drifted through the house, and he heard the voice of the Nogitsune still calling him, sing-songing, “Stiless….. Stilesssss….”  Whenever it got really bad, Stiles put his music on loud enough that it felt like it might blow out his ear drums, and then he could finally breathe, because the damn riddles were gone from his head.

But then there were the other things.  The fucking house was haunted.  At least… he thought it was.  Sometimes he thought he saw or heard people moving in the house.  They didn’t do much to bother Stiles for the most part.  And then there was Tate.  He was different from the others.  He was about Stiles’ age, and he wasn’t as shy as the others.  He was curious, and creeping, and liked getting very close.  And sometimes Stiles didn’t know whether Tate was real or not.  Which was worse, really?  That Stiles had imagined a ghost named Tate, and the fantasy of the other boy lived in his head?  Or that Tate was really a dead boy who had taken an interest in Stiles and liked to watch him while he slept?  Honestly, which was worse?

Tate showed up in Stiles’ dreams sometimes.  When Stiles was running down the hall, sometimes he met himself at the end, and sometimes it was the Nogitsune, and sometimes it was Tate.  And when he woke up… sometimes he was alone, and sometimes he wasn’t. 

What was Stiles supposed to do?  What did Tate want?  How much longer could Stiles deal with all of this?  His own nightmares, and the things he’d done, and the ghosts that hovered around him constantly?  How much longer before Stiles really lost it?

Yeah, the thing he’d never tell them was that he felt like he was always dreaming, just like before.


	6. Bad Things

 

 

“Something real bad must have happened to you.”  The soft voice said from the shadows near the foot of the bed.  Stiles sat up, still covered in his own sweat from the nightmare he’d just had.  He could only just make out the pale glow of Tate’s face in the gloom of the bedroom.  His dark eyes were shadowed but his mouth was turned into a slight frown at the corners.  Stiles stared back at him, revealing nothing.  “Either that, or you _did_ something real bad.”  Tate mused.  He sounded concerned, but also curious.  Still, Stiles said nothing.

They stared at each other in the darkness for a very long time, until finally Stiles cleared his throat and asked “How’d you die, Tate?”

Tate, of course, disappeared.


	7. Deal

 

 

 

 

“Why are you so curious, anyway?”  Stiles murmured.  He was trying to work on an assignment for English class, but the cursor on the page still had nothing behind it, and he couldn’t think what to write.  Behind him, Tate sprawled languidly on the bed, taking up too much space that wasn’t his.  At least, it wasn’t his anymore.  It had been at one time, though, hadn’t it?

Tate picked at a piece of fuzz on the blanket.  “I’m dead, remember?  I don’t have a whole lot going on.”

“So that’s it?  I’m new and you’re bored?”

“Does there have to be another reason?”

“No, I guess not.”

“There is, though.”  Tate murmured.

“What?”  Stiles asked absent-mindedly, still staring at the glaringly blank screen.

“Another reason.”

Stiles turned in his seat so that he could see Tate, who glanced up at him through the fringe of his messy blonde hair.  “What is it, then?”

Tate frowned and lowered his dark eyes.  “I think you’re interesting but… I’m concerned.”

“About what?”

“You, of course.”

Stiles snorted inelegantly and turned back to his computer.

Tate crawled from the bed and came up behind him, a dark hovering presence.  Stiles could feel the genuine anxiety rolling off of the other boy.  “Don’t scoff.  It’s true.  I’m concerned about you.  You don’t eat much.  You never leave except to go to school.  You don’t talk to your dad.  You have terrible nightmares every night.  And….”

Stiles’s shoulders stiffened and he tried to pretend that Tate’s closeness didn’t bother him.  “And what?”

“And you’re talking to me.”

Stiles laughed and shut the laptop before he spun around and faced Tate.  He crossed his arms and smirked.  “So what?  You don’t want me to talk to you anymore?  I thought you just said you’re curious.”

“Don’t get me wrong.  I’m very curious.  It’s just… I’m dead.  You know I’m dead.  I mean, I’m glad you talk to me because otherwise I’d be even more bored, but don’t you have someone you could talk to who’s not a dead guy?”

“I talk to people.  I talk to Scott and Lydia.”

“Not lately.”

Stiles stared at Tate’s pale face and concerned eyes for another moment before he had to concede that the other boy was right.  He hadn’t talked to them in a while.  They hadn’t called him, and he hadn’t tried to call them either.

“So you want me to tell you all my deep dark secrets then, is that it?”

Tate shrugged.  “If you want to.  Sometimes talking helps.  I used to see a shrink for that, but well… generally doctors don’t make house calls for dead guys.”

Stiles snorted.  “Trust me, talking won’t help me.  My issues are a little bit… beyond that.”

Tate shuffled nervously from one foot to the other and said “Well, what _will_ help?”

Stiles laughed darkly.  “I have no idea.  If I knew, I’d be doing it already.”

“Well, wouldn’t you like to figure it out?”

“And you’re gonna help me?”

“Why not?  I’ve got nothing better to do, and like I said, I’m concerned about you.”

Stiles stared at Tate and Tate stared back.  They were silent for a while, sizing each other up, and judging their options.  Stiles could feel something dark and powerful strain against the chains he’d wrapped around his memories of the past year.  Finally, Stiles said “Alright.  I’ll let you help me, but I have one condition.”

Tate’s dark eyes glinted.  “What’s your condition?”

“If I’m gonna share all of _my_ deep dark secrets, you have to tell me yours too.”

Tate’s lips curved up into a soft smile.  “Deal.”


	8. History Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are 17 ghosts trapped in the Murder House....

 

 

“There are 17 of us trapped here.”  Tate stood with his back to Stiles and looked out over the dusky front lawn.  “The house is pretty crowded.”  His voice was soft, musing. “Dr. Charles Montgomery built the place for his wife Nora in 1922.”  Tate’s voice took on a hint of amusement.  “Charles was a surgeon to the stars, you know.”

Stiles huffed.  “I don’t want a history lesson, man.  And anyway, what does this have to do with you?”

Tate turned and looked at Stiles from underneath the shadowed fringe of his hair.  He fiddled with the sleeves of his black shirt and pulled them over his hands nervously.  “If you want to understand me, you have to learn about _them_.  I grew up and died in this house, you know.  They helped to make me who I am.”

“Fine.  But I still want to know what happened to _you_.”

Tate looked out the window again.  “We’ll get there.”  He was silent for a long moment, and then, “You and your dad should stay out of the basement.”

“Why?”  Stiles felt a shudder go through him.  He could still taste cold mildewed air clogging his throat, and the desperate need to escape clawing at his belly.

“That’s where the worst of them hang out.”  Tate turned and stared at Stiles seriously.  “So do you want to hear about them, or not?”

“I guess.”  Stiles shrugged and pulled his rowan bead rosary out of his pocket to start fiddling with it.  “Sometimes it’s better to know… but sometimes it isn’t.”

“I get that.  Once you know, you can’t pretend you don’t.” 

“It changes you.”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me.”

“I met the ones in the basement first, when I was a little boy.”  Tate’s dark eyes glittered.  “It’s a long, dark story, but the gist is that Charles was a bit… crazy, or adventurous, depending on your perspective.  He liked to experiment, and he got caught up in doing the dirty work for the starlets back in the 20s.  He went to a pretty dark place…mentally.  And he couldn’t keep Nora happy, no matter what he did.  He wasn’t treating her right, but she had her baby to distract her.  But then everything went to shit when a man kidnapped the baby and killed him.  Charles was convinced he could bring the baby back to life, but he created something else, something that was monstrous, and craved blood.  Nora lost her mind with the grief and she blew Charles away before killing herself.  All three of them are still here.”  Tate snorted.  “Charles still fiddles with his experiments in the basement and the child, Thaddeus, still searches for fresh blood.  He’s the one who’s most likely to try to kill you.  He tried to kill me when I was just a boy, before I learned to stay out of the basement.”

“And Nora?”

Tate smiled softly.  “I like Nora.  She’s not bad.  Just… sad.  She doesn’t realize she’s dead.”

Stiles shook his head.  “How can you not know you’re dead?”

Tate shrugged.  “You’d be surprised how much it feels like being alive.”  He moved to sit on the bed.  “Now it’s your turn.”

“No way.  You haven’t told me anything about yourself yet.”

Tate smirked.  “Sure I did.  I told you I’ve known about ghosts for most of my life and that one of them tried to kill me when I was a boy in my own basement.  Don’t you think that’s pretty fucked up?”

“For normal people, I guess.”

“Normal.”  Tate raised a sarcastic eyebrow, as if he would never associate himself with that word.

Stiles shrugged.  “My best friend is a werewolf.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true.”  Stiles started absently counting beads under his breath.  Then, “I don’t care if you believe me, but if you don’t believe that, then you really won’t believe anything else I say.”

“Is it worse?”

“A lot worse.” 

“Fine.  I believe you.”

Stiles smirked.  “Good.  But it’s your turn.”


	9. Necessity for Survival

 

 

“The Black Dahlia hangs out in the basement, too.  But she’s shy.  And also pretty dumb.”

“The Black Dahlia.  Like… of the famous murder.”

“Yes.”  Tate cocked his head.  “You pay a lot of attention to famous murders?”

Stiles snorted.  “My dad’s a cop.  What do you think?”

“That’s right.  The good officer Stilinski.  Tell me about him.”

Stiles shrugged.  “Not much to say.  He’s my dad.”

“Do you get along with him?”

“Yeah, most of the time.  He’s a good guy.  What about your dad?”

“I wouldn’t know.  He left us when I was just a kid, and we never heard from him again.”

Stiles turned around to straddle his chair.  “Do you know why he left?”

“Probably because my mom’s a bitch.”

“She’s still alive?”

“I guess so.”  Tate shifted uneasily and began pacing the room.  “I don’t want to talk about her anymore, though.”

Stiles watched the other boy pace dispassionately.  “Fine.”

“Actually, I don’t feel like talking much at all, now.”  Tate whispered.  Then, before Stiles could blink, he was gone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles’ dad found him sitting at the top of the basement stairs later that evening when he got home.  Sheriff Stilinski eyed his son curiously and said “Hey bud, what’s up?  Why are you hanging out here?”

Stiles shrugged.  “Just felt like it, I guess.”

The sheriff shook his head.  “It’s a bit creepy down there, don’t you think?  I had to go down there when we moved in to check a couple fuses in the power box.”

“Yeah, it’s definitely creepy.  You probably shouldn’t go down there if you can help it.”

The sheriff eyed his son for a moment before saying “Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not.  Just… promise me you’ll stay out of there.”

“I’ll do my best.  Now how do you feel about grabbing some burgers for dinner?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles made his way through the kitchen, shutting the cabinet doors as he went, because they’d all been open when he came down to grab a snack.  He’d heard raucous laughing before he put his earbuds in and turned his music up.  He really wasn’t in the mood for dealing with this bullshit tonight.  He had another hour of math homework to go and his dad was working late again.

When he made his way back to his room, he found Tate sitting at his desk, waiting for him.  Stiles pulled his earbuds out and said “Hey, which ghost keeps opening all the cabinets downstairs?”

Tate frowned.  “That’s the twins.  They’re obnoxious assholes.”

“What happened to them?”

“Thaddeus.”

“Huh.  So… what are you doing here?  You haven’t been around for a while.”

Tate shifted and stood, unfolding himself from the chair.  “Yeah… I’m sorry about that.  I just didn’t feel like talking.”

“But now you do?”

“If you want.  Where’s your dad?”

“Working late.”

“He works really hard, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah.  His job is really important to him.”

“And what about you?”

Stiles frowned and shoved his hands into his pockets.  “What about me?”

“Are you important to him, too?”

Stiles shivered, remembering the day his father had packed up their things and announced they were leaving Beacon Hills.  He remembered the horrified look in his father’s eyes when he’d realized what his son had become.  “Yeah, I am.”

“You’re lucky.”  Tate skimmed his fingers across Stiles’ book case, his eyes trailing after.  “You read a lot….”  Tate plucked one book from the others and flipped through it randomly.  “ _Encyclopedia of Occult Symbols,_ ” Tate murmured, before slipping it back into place and pulling out “ _Ancient Myths of Europe,_ ” after it.  Tate grinned softly and looked up at Stiles from under the fringe of his hair.  “You know a lot about this kind of stuff, huh?”

Stiles slumped into the chair that Tate had vacated.  “Necessity for survival back in Beacon Hills.”

“Oh?”

“A lot of things tried to kill me and my friends.”

Tate’s eyes were sharp, assessing now, as he skimmed them over Stiles from head to toe and back again.  “But they didn’t kill you.”

Stiles stared back at the other boy.  He almost pitied him.  “They tried.”


	10. The Abyss

 

 

“Hey Stiles… have you been in my office?”

Stiles looked up at his dad and finished chewing his spoonful of cereal.  “Um…no?”

“Huh.”  Sheriff Stilinski rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.  “That’s strange.”

“What?”

“I walked in this morning and everything was….”

“Was what?”

“Are you sure you weren’t in there?”

“I’m sure.  You were saying?  Everything was…?”

“Well….  Everything was neat and organized.”

Stiles frowned.  “Huh.  That _is_ weird.”

The sheriff eyed Stiles curiously for a moment longer, before saying “Well, if you’re sure….”

Stiles took another large bite of his cereal.  Around the crunchy mess, he muttered “Positive.”

“Alright.  Well, I’m off.  You okay by yourself tonight?”

Stiles shrugged.  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

The sheriff raised his hands defensively.  “Just checking.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was nearly 11pm when Tate joined him out on the front porch.  Stiles perched on the railing and looked out over the deserted road that ran in front of the house.  Tate came to stand next to him, but he didn’t speak.  They were quiet together for a while, simply being in each other’s company, until Stiles finally said “Hey man… have you been in my dad’s office?”

Tate shrugged.  “No.  Why?”

“He said someone organized all of his stuff, and it wasn’t me.”

“It was probably Moira.”

“Moira?”  Stiles only sort-of cared.  It was good to know who he shared a house with, he supposed.  The names and details of all of the creepy dead people who lingered around him.  But he wasn’t afraid of any of them.  Couldn’t be.  Not anymore.  He was beyond that.

“The maid.  She’s dead, of course, but she still takes care of the place.”

“What happened to her?”

“Shot.”

“By who?”

Tate shrugged.  “Who knows?  Be careful around her, though.  She can be a bit of a slut.”

Stiles chuckled.  “You know this from experience or what?”

Tate snorted.  “Please.  She hates my guts.”

Stiles turned his tired eyes upon the other boy.  “Oh yeah?  Why’s that?”

Tate shrugged.  “Dunno.  Maybe I’m just not her type.”  Then he huffed a breath.  “I think I’d kill for a cigarette right now.”  He glanced at Stiles out of the corner of his eye.  “Do you smoke?”

“No way,” Stiles grinned darkly.  “Those things’ll kill you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles sat on the top stair to the basement, and gazed down into the darkness.  Every so often, he thought he saw movement flit at the corners of his vision, but he was unwilling to descend to check.  He believed Tate when he said there was a crowd of nasty ghosts hiding in the dark recesses of the labyrinthine basement.  But there was another reason he dared not descend the stairs.

When Stiles closed his eyes, he could still see the moldy brick walls of another basement, and something resembling a backwards 5 etched into the wall.  He choked on fear and panic every night when he closed his eyes.  He struggled to break free, but he was trapped, and dying.  And outside, in the real world, his friends were bleeding, and it was _all his fault_.  A dark, growly voice still hissed “Stilessss….  Stilessssss….” Whenever he let his guard down. 

Fear, panic, pain, chaos.  They each had a distinct taste, and Stiles could recall every single one.  They were bitter in his mouth, and they poisoned his blood when he swallowed them down.  God, he tried.  He tried so damn hard.  But he couldn’t forget.  He couldn’t move past it. 

He’d ripped the fucking Nogitsune from his body and his mind.  He’d exorcised the fucking thing himself, and he’d fought it the whole time.  But it hadn’t left without a fight, and the fight is what changed Stiles.  It hadn’t started there, though. 

Stiles could still feel the ice cold water washing over him, covering his body.  He could feel strong hands holding him down, under, until he died.

He remembered standing in a pure white room, with the others.

He remembered a door.

He remembered coming back to life.

He remembered going crazy.

He remembered….  He remembered not being Stiles anymore.

Suddenly, his musings were interrupted by a voice hissing, “I thought I told you to stay away from here!”  He turned to find Tate glowering behind him, his dark eyes wide with fear.

Stiles shook the memories from his mind and focused on the other boy, the dark shadow who was becoming something of a friend… if such a thing could exist in a place like this.  “I wasn’t gonna go down there.  I just… I wanted to look.”

Tate scoffed and held the door open wide, beckoning Stiles to come back into the light of the hallway.  “You know what they say about looking into the Abyss, don’t you?”  Tate growled.

Stiles laughed.  He couldn’t help it.  Abyss.  _Void._ “It looks back at you.”

Tate narrowed his dark eyes and Stiles smiled to reassure him.

Inside, the chains rattled and the darkness stretched, and a monster sharpened its claws.  A sing-songy voice that sounded too eerily like Stiles himself murmured, “ _When is a door not a door?”_


	11. Go Away

 

 

Stiles woke himself screaming.  He fell out of bed, thrashing and sweaty, and tangled in his sheets.  He hit the floor hard and knocked his head.  His vision of snow and blood dissolved into one of darkness and the concerned, hovering face of his stalker ghost.

“Are you okay, Stiles?”  Tate asked, his brows furrowed.  “Let me help.”

“You can’t help me.”  Stiles growled, pushing himself up.  God, would Tate just _leave him the fuck alone?!_   He was always there, always hovering, always waiting.

“If you’d just talk about it--!”  Tate protested, taking a step back.

Stiles laughed, but it was an ugly, dangerous sound.  “Fuck you, Tate!  How’d you die, huh?!”

Stiles didn’t expect him to answer, had said it to hurt the hypocrite and nothing more.  But after a beat of silence, Tate hissed “It happened right here, in this room.  Is that what you wanted to know?”

“How?!”  Stiles demanded.

“Gunshot.  Someone blew me away.  Happy now?”  Tate began pacing back and forth agitatedly, his hands shoved in his pockets.

Stiles snorted.  “You’re a goddamn liar.”

“I’m not a liar!”  Tate snarled.

“You’re a fucking liar!  And you’re useless!  Pathetic!  You can’t help me, so just leave me the fuck alone!”

Tate’s eyes widened in the darkness, and Stiles could almost _taste_ the fear on the air.  “No, don’t.  Stop!”

“Go away, Tate!  Go away!  Leave me alone!”

Stiles’s voice still shook the walls even after he was alone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The shadows were creeping in, whispering to him.  Things moved in the darkness.  Stiles thought he was awake, but he couldn’t be sure.  Where was his dad?  It felt like he hadn’t seen him in days.  He hadn’t left in days, either.  Or… maybe he had?  Maybe he was still sleeping?  Maybe this was all a nightmare.

Stiles perched at the top of the basement stairs.  Down in the depths, he heard things scrabble across the floor, and a hushed weeping.  He wondered if that was Nora, the dead socialite.  But there were others.  Tate had said 17 ghosts haunted the place, but he hadn’t mentioned them all yet.  Maybe there was worse than Thaddeus down there. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Tate!  Where are you?!”  Stiles growled.  It had been days since he’d told the other boy to fuck off, and he hadn’t seen him since.  He hadn’t seen anyone.  “Tate?!”

“Ugh, save your breath,” A new voice advised from the kitchen.

Stiles followed the voice and came upon a tall, dark-haired and nicely dressed man sitting at the kitchen island, drinking a glass of wine.

“Who are you?”  Stiles asked, clutching the rowan bead rosary in his pocket.

“I’m Chad.”

“Care to elaborate?”

Chad quirked a single brow.  “Not really.”  He swirled the wine in his glass and took another sip, closing his eyes in pleasure as he did so. 

“Where’s Tate?”

“Skulking somewhere, I’m sure.  You should leave him to it.  Save your breath, and give the rest of us a bit of peace.”  Chad gestured with the wine glass.  “It’s so much nicer when he’s not around.  Little psycho.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows.  There was definitely a story there.  “You don’t like him.”

Chad snorted.  “I fucking hate him.  If he weren’t already dead, I’d kill him.  I’m eternally upset that I’ve been denied that opportunity.”

“What did he do?”

“Oh, no,” Chad chuckled.  “I’m not going to spoil the story for you.  Ask him yourself.”

“He’s a liar.”  Stiles muttered.

Chad nodded.  “Yes, he is that.”

“Are there really terrible things in the basement?”

“Oh yes,” Chad purred before he took another sip of wine.  “That’s where all the worst ones stay.”  He flicked his eyes up and down Stiles’ form.  “They’d love to sink their teeth into a hot little twink like you.”

Stiles shrugged, gazing at Chad dispassionately.  “You’re assuming they could.”

Chad surveyed Stiles critically over the wine glass.  “In an instant, sweetheart.  Do yourself a favor and stay away from the scary things.”

Stiles laughed, but it echoed wrongly in the kitchen.  “I wish I could, you know, but the scary things always seem to find me.  I just can’t get away from them.”

“Then maybe you should leave.  You and your father.  He seems like a good man.  You’re both good people.  Leave, before this place destroys you.”

“This isn’t the worst place I’ve ever been.”

Chad chuckled around the wine glass.  “I sincerely doubt that.”


	12. Rattling Chains

The red ball rolled back and forth, back and forth, where they were hunkered down in a corner of the attic.  “I just don’t understand, Beau,” Tate murmured, “why would he do that?  I was only trying to help him.  Can’t he see that?”

Beau made a low grumbling sound and pushed the ball back, a smile stretching his wide, homely face.

“You’re a good brother, Beau,” Tate said, smiling back at him.  “You always listen.”  He bowed his head and his eyes narrowed again.  “But what am I going to do about Stiles?  He’s hurting, Beau.  All of us can see that.  He’s hurting, and he’s got poison filling him up.  If he doesn’t do something to get rid of it, it’s going to swallow him.  And then what?”

Beau whined, and shuffled further into the corner.

“That’s right.  If we don’t help him, he’ll end up just like the rest of us.  And we can’t have that, can we?”

 

* * *

 

 

The darkness of the basement yawned below him.  It was quiet today, though.  No whispers, or moans, or growls.  No shuffling feet or clinking chains.  Just… quiet.  The whole house had been eerily quiet for the last couple days, now, with the exception of the comings and goings of his dad, who had been running himself ragged for the new office.  Stiles had been going to school, and doing his homework, and all of those other things that he was expected to do.  But he’d also been reading a lot lately, especially some of the books that Deaton had given him. 

Stiles ran a hand down his face.  He was tired.  So tired.  He hardly ever slept anymore, and when he did, the nightmares woke him shortly after.  There was nothing to be done for it, though.  He was pretty sure of that.  The Nogitsune was gone.  Stiles was just… Stiles now, with all of his baggage, and that was just something he was going to have to deal with. 

“Tate… are you down there?!”  Stiles called.  The basement was silent.  “Tate!”  No answer.

In the part of Stiles that he didn’t want to acknowledge, that he tried to pretend wasn’t there, the chains rattled.  Stiles forced himself to take a breath.  Rage, pain, fear, hopelessness, bitterness, regret… they strained at the chains, they bent the doors inward and pushed.  Stiles swallowed down his panic.  He couldn’t let it out.  Couldn’t let it out.  He’d held himself together for this long, and he had to keep doing it.  He _had_ to.  There wasn’t another choice.  After years of torment and hard choices and death, Stiles knew exactly what lived behind those doors, what he’d spent years wrapping in chains.  He _knew_ and he couldn’t let it out.  Because the darkness of the basement had nothing on what lay behind those doors.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Stiles flopped on the couch in the living room, the tv turned to some mindless reality show—the kind that always seems to come on at 2am on a weeknight.  As the program dragged on, Stiles found himself morbidly fascinated with the blind dates that this poor 20 something woman was going on with weirdo after weirdo.  It was shallow, maybe, but it made Stiles feel a modicum better about his own life.  Sure, he’d been through a few hells and back, and yeah, he was living in a house full of dead people, but at least he didn’t have to go on terrible dates with groping perverts.  The woman was just ready to go on her third date, when suddenly the tv flickered, and the lights did, and Stiles heard the distinct sound of footsteps behind the couch.

His blood froze, and he found himself unwilling to move, unwilling to turn around and _see._ The footsteps turned to dragging sounds, and panting breaths accompanied them.  Stiles hunched further into the couch.  He wanted to close his eyes, to will it all away, but he couldn’t make himself do that either. 

The voice was a tremulous warble when it said “Look what he did to us….”  Then “LOOK WHAT HE DID TO US!!!”  Two women, dressed in retro-style white nurse’s outfits came around each side of the couch so that they blocked out the tv and demanded his attention.  One of them was wet, the other covered in blood from multiple stab wounds.  Both of their faces were screwed up in pain and rage and fear, their makeup smeared, their mouths wrenched open in demanding screams.  “LOOK WHAT HE DID TO US!  LOOK WHAT HE DID!!!!!”

Stiles covered his ears and forced himself to sit up, to push back further into the couch in an attempt to distance himself from this new horror.  “Go… go away!”  He croaked.

“LOOK WHAT HE DID!!!!!”

“GO AWAY!!!”  Stiles roared.  And suddenly the room was empty again, and the tv program carried on like nothing had ever happened.

Stiles’ heart hammered in his chest and he looked around wildly, for help or to assure himself he was alone—he wasn’t sure.

Needless to say, he didn’t sleep that night, and not just because of the horror of ghosts dropping in.  There was something even more terrifying in their ragged clothes and their smeared makeup, and the way that they’d pleaded for him to _see._

They sort of reminded him of Melissa.

 

 

* * *

 

 

His knuckles cracked blissfully against the wall, sending a shiver of pleasure and pain sliding up his arm and to his brain.  It had been a while since he’d let loose like that, since he’d unchained the darkness enough that it spilled over and into his fist.  But _God,_ it felt good.  A trickle of blood started where the skin split, but Stiles hit the wall again, just to feel it sting.

Suddenly, a body pressed close to him, invading his space, and a deep voice murmured “Not like that, you’ll break your wrist,” in his ear.  Stiles spun around, heart hammering, to find a tall man dressed in a sleeveless tank and workout shorts standing _way_ too close for comfort.

“Who the hell are you?!”  Stiles demanded.

The man smiled down at him and ran a hand through his hair.  “I’m Patrick.  You should wrap your wrists, at least, if you’re going to be punching things.  Wouldn’t want you to shatter any fragile bones.”

_Another fucking ghost._ “What do you care?”

Patrick smiled easily.  “I spent a lot of time at the gym.  You should be careful.”  Patrick eyed him lasciviously, and Stiles felt like he was a delicacy on a menu.

“Noted.”

Patrick drew close again.  “I could help you, if you wanted.”

Stiles snorted.  “All of you are so very helpful, aren’t you?”

Patrick frowned.  “We’re not all the same.  Some of us actually mean it.”

“I’m sure.”

“He’s been talking to you, hasn’t he?  That dirty little creep.  _He’s_ the one you should stay away from.”

“Who?”

“Your little blonde boyfriend.  He’s bad news.  A real sick fuck.”

Stiles’ blood rushed.  “What did he do?”

Patrick snorted.  “What _didn’t_ he do?”

Stiles opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, a sardonic voice from the doorway said “Telling lies, Patrick?”

Patrick sneered, “You’d fucking know.”  He glared for a moment, then turned his eyes back to Stiles.  “Watch out.”  Then he was gone.

Stiles turned to face Tate, whose face was eerily blank, but whose dark eyes were full of… everything.  He stood in the doorway, casually, but taking up too much space.  It had been more than a week since Stiles had seen him.

“God, how many of you all are there?!”  Stiles muttered, as he pushed himself away from the wall.

Tate shrugged and focused more closely on Stiles, his face still impassive.  “I told you.  The house is crowded.”  Tate’s eyes dropped to Stiles’ hand, where blood was beading on the torn knuckles.  “You should take care of that.”

“Why?  What does it matter?”  Stiles rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck with satisfaction.  “It’s just a little blood.  I’ve had a lot worse.”

Tate’s eyes seemed to darken even further.  “Have you?”

“Yeah.”  Stiles raised his hand to his mouth and licked a stripe across his bloody knuckles.  Tate’s eyes, almost black, followed the movement and his breath hitched.  Inside, the chains rattled ferociously and a voice that sounded like Stiles’ own began to chuckle.  “I’ve done a lot worse, too.”

Tate gulped.  “Tell me.”

Stiles smirked, and it was familiar, dangerous, an expression he’d worn a lot recently.  He pushed away from the wall and strolled up to Tate, just into his personal space.  His voice was a whisper when he said “If you’re not careful, I’ll show you, instead.”  Then he waved his fingers, turned on his heel, and left the house to get some fresh air.


	13. Blood

 

 

 

Steam filled the bathroom and fogged the mirror.  Stiles stepped from the shower, wrapping a towel around his lean waist as he did so, his feet tracking little puddles of water behind him as he moved to the sink.  He wiped the steam away from the glass, needing to see, needing to know.  His own honey brown eyes stared back at him, not those of a monster like he had feared.  Not yet. Not again.  Just… him.  For better or worse.

A flicker of movement over his shoulder caught his eye and Stiles flicked his eyes that way in time to catch the reflection of Tate leaning in the doorway, his blonde hair artfully mussed, decked in jeans, a black t-shirt, and a striped cardigan.

Stiles turned toward the other boy silently, a curious brow cocked.  Tate’s eyes dragged the full length of him, from head to toes and back again, snagging on the towel and bare chest along the way.  They stared at each other silently for a moment, before Tate quirked his lips and said “How do you feel about trying new things?”

Stiles smirked, fully aware of the strange situation they were currently in.  “Like what?”

Tate pushed away from the wall and stepped into the bathroom, a foot closer to Stiles’ personal space.  “Last time we saw each other, you threatened me.  You told me you’d done bad things before, and that if I’m not careful, you’ll show me.”  Tate took a step closer, his eyes focused on Stiles’ own eyes.  He licked his lips.  “What if I want you to show me?”

Stiles scoffed.  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?”  Tate took another step.  “There’s something really wrong with you, Stiles.  I recognize it, and I know how to help it.”

Stiles gulped.  “How?”

“You gotta get the poison out.”

“How?!”  Stiles hissed, because _fuck,_ isn’t that what he’d been _trying_ to do, for months now?

“The only way there is.”  Tate murmured.  “Blood.”  Then he took the final step into Stiles’ space, and before Stiles could react, flattened his hands on the other boy’s bare chest and shoved him into the sink.

“The fuck?!”  Stiles shouted, stumbling and catching himself against the slippery porcelain before he could fall and crack his head.  He snarled at the other boy standing over him, in his personal space, too close, too _there,_ and then, “Wait… you touched me!  How did you touch me?!”

Tate grinned.  “Things are different here.”

“You son of a bitch!”  Stiles snarled, launching at the other boy and swinging.  His knuckles cracked satisfyingly against Tate’s cheek and he knocked the other boy backward away from him.  “You fucker!”  Stiles swung again and Tate stumbled back out of the bathroom, laughing.  “You never told me!” 

“Nope!”  Tate laughed, darting just out of Stiles’ reach.  “It’s fucking frustrating, isn’t it?”

Stiles roared and charged Tate, tackling him around the middle.  He collided with the other boy, who felt solid in his arms, and he took them both to the ground, so that Tate’s head cracked back against the hardwood floor.  “Shut up!”  Stiles snarled, and launched his fist into Tate’s face once more.  A sickening crunch followed the impact and a gush of blood spurted from Tate’s nose.

“Come on, Stiles!”  Tate laughed brokenly, “Is that all you got?”  He gurgled around the blood in his throat.  “Fucking hit me, you pussy!”

Somewhere in the back of Stiles’ mind, the chains rattled.  They rattled and the door crunched, and a voice that sounded just like him started cackling madly.  Darkness started creeping in at the edges of his vision, and Stiles felt the chill of that basement again.  All of his pain and fear and hopelessness drained into his fist, and he slammed it into Tate’s face once more, just to get him to _shut the fuck up_.  The chains rattled.  They crashed.

“Hit me!”  Tate roared, and he tried to shove Stiles off of him. 

It didn’t work.

The chains broke, and the door slammed open, and darkness poured out.

Stiles grabbed a hold of Tate’s shaggy blonde hair and slammed his head back into the floor.  The other boy just laughed again, though he choked on blood while he did.  It bubbled up over his lips and out of his nose, and he _fucking laughed._ Stiles smashed his head into the floor again, and again, and again.

Tate reached his hands up, struggling, and scrabbled at Stiles’ face, his neck, his chest, and the flesh of his arms.  But it didn’t help him.  Stiles hit him over and over and over again, and a cold, dark pleasure flooded through him as he did.  God, _this_ is what he’d been holding back.  _This._

“I’m in control!”  Stiles shouted as he hit Tate again.  “I’m in control!  I’m in control!  I’M THE ONE IN CONTROL!”

The room completely blacked out, but Stiles didn’t stop moving.  Couldn’t.  Not now.  He had a lifetime of pain pouring out of him, he had a darkness that had been drowning him, but it had broken through, and it was flooding the room now, sweeping them both under.  No holding back.  Too late for that.

 

 

Eventually…Stiles’ vision cleared and he realized that Tate had long since gone still.  Stiles sat back, away from the limp body and broken face.  Stiles’ hands and arms were flecked with blood, and he could feel it crusting on his own face as well.  “Oh God,” he gulped, holding down the surge of vomit that threatened to spew all over the floor.  “Oh God, what have I done?”

Stiles skittered across the floor, away from the unmoving body of the other teenager, still and lifeless, surrounded by a pool of blood.

Stiles’ hands were coated in it.  It was like all of his fucking nightmares coming true at once.  He was drenched in it, swimming in it.  It painted his skin dark red, and he could even imagine he tasted it.  Blood.  Blood everywhere.

He scooted away until his back hit the wall, and he pulled his knees up to his chest, only then becoming aware that he was still only wearing a towel.  His hands shook as he held them up.  “Oh my God, what did I do?!”  He muttered, his voice shaking.  He gulped, but it was hard to swallow, hard to breathe.  “What did I do?!” 

His breathing became ragged, and his vision started to go dark again.  The room seemed to spin, and he felt all too present, for the first time in months.  He was trapped in the _here_ and _now,_ and there was no escape.  “WHAT HAVE I DONE?!”  Stiles screamed.

A few feet away, Tate’s body twitched and then he sat up, wiping the blood from his face and onto the sleeve of his striped cardigan.  His teeth were still coated in blood when he smiled at Stiles and asked, “Feel better?”


	14. Poison

 

 

Stiles flung the door open and burst out onto the front porch just in time to puke over the railing.  The sickness wrenched his body as it came, from deep within him.  He heaved, and his fingers clawed at the wood of the railing just to keep him upright.  He wretched, heaving up dark bile that wrung him dry.  Tears stained his eyes and his body shook with the effort.

It seemed to go on forever.

Eventually, he fell back with shaking legs, and slid down to sit on the porch, gulping in cool, fresh air.  He’d calmed, but only because he had no energy left, and he felt empty.  Of everything.  Of vomit, and caring, and _himself._

A short while later, after his skin had cooled and all thoughts had fled his mind, Tate wandered out after him, his footsteps noticeable and heavy—entirely for Stiles’ benefit, he was sure.  He settled himself next to Stiles with his back also against the wall, but with enough space between them that they were not touching, but could have.  Tate tipped his head back against the wall and looked up at the vines growing atop the porch beams.  “You alright?”  He asked.

Stiles said nothing, because there was nothing to be said.  He had no words left.

“It was pretty fucked up, I know, but you’ll feel better in a bit, I promise.”  He stretched his legs out and sighed.  “You shouldn’t over-think it.  You were perfect.”

Stiles continued to stare forward, at nothing, but he listened.

Tate’s throat bobbed on a swallow, and then he said “I feel like we can finally be honest with each other now.”

If Stiles had had anything left inside him, he might have laughed, but all of his laughter was gone as well.

“You have to get the poison out or it fucks with your brain, you know.”  Tate plucked at his own sleeve, now devoid of blood.  “Trust me, I’ve been there.”  Stiles could hear the frown in his voice when he added, “I used to do drugs to deal with the bullshit.  Coke, mostly.”  A sigh.  “I drank.  I smoked.  I snorted.  But believe me… blood works the best.”

The wind sighed between them, and still Stiles said nothing.

Tate heaved another deep sigh.  “God, I’d kill for a cigarette right now.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Stiles folded his knees to his chest and stared down into the darkness.  He stared for a long time, but didn’t move.  Eventually, Tate settled on the steps next to him.  “Contemplating the abyss again, huh?”

Stiles nodded.

“The very worst things are down there, you know.  You won’t go, will you?”  Tate turned to look at him, and Stiles glanced at him from the corner of his eye.  “Promise me you won’t go down there.”

Stiles shrugged.  “Sure.  I promise.  But is it really worse than....?”

“Worse than what?”  Tate asked.  Stiles was pretty sure the other boy knew but wanted to make him say it.

“Worse than what I did?”

“Way worse.”  Tate’s fingers itched against his brown corduroy pants.  “Got any cigarettes?”  Stiles ignored the question because Tate already knew the answer.  “Jesus, I miss them.”

“So what else is down there?”  Stiles asked, redirecting Tate’s attention.

“Lorraine and the girls.”

Stiles eyed the other boy and waved his hand for him to continue.

“Lorraine lit herself and her two daughters on fire one night.  She didn’t mean it, but the grief had her.  They stay down here now.  The poor girls know they’re dead, and they don’t like people to see their faces.”

Stiles shivered.  “Why’d she do it?”

Tate scowled.  “Her douchebag husband cheated on her, and then left her.  Was going to kick her and the girls out so his mistress could move in instead.”

Stiles gaped.  “Wow.  That really _is_ fucked up.  What happened to him?”

Tate’s scowl turned up slightly at one corner.  “Someone lit him on fire, too.”

Stiles gazed down into the darkness.  Something heavy dragged far below.  “Karma’s a bitch,” he deadpanned.

They were quiet for a long time, then.  Their knees touched where they perched side by side on the steps above the basement.

“Do you forgive me?”  Tate asked, voice softer than it had been for weeks now.

“No,” Stiles answered after a moment.  No, he couldn’t forgive what Tate had done, nor what _he_ had done.  It was too much.  Stiles had _murdered_ someone.  So what if Tate was a ghost already?  Stiles had felt his blood on his hands.  It counted.

“You felt better after though, didn’t you?”

Stiles brushed the question off.  “Did it hurt?” 

“’Course it did.”  Tate murmured.  “You smashed my head against the floor a couple hundred times.”

“I don’t like what I did.  What I became.  I let go of something and that’s… not me.”

“It _was_ you, though.”  Tate insisted.  “You did that.”

“Why are you even still talking to me?”  Stiles wondered.  “If you weren’t already dead, I would’ve killed you, Tate.  Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Not really.”  Tate shrugged.  “I told you that I care about you.  I wasn’t lying.  I want to help you.”  He turned so that he could face Stiles and he leaned against the stair railing.  “I know that sort of rage, Stiles.  That violence.  It won’t go away on its own.  Trust me.  The only thing you can do is exorcise it.  It _has_ to come out.”  Tate pulled his sleeves over his fingers.  “It’ll destroy you if you don’t.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore!”  Stiles hissed. 

“Yes, you do.”  Tate murmured, meeting Stiles’ eyes.  “That’s what scares you.  But you don’t need to be afraid.  I promised I’d help you.”

“You want me to hurt you.”  Stiles said blandly.  This was _so_ fucked up.

“If you need to.  I don’t mind it.”

Stiles stared at him again before he chuckled and shook his head despite himself.  “I don’t know whether that’s kinky as hell or terrifying.”

Tate smiled and it was radiant, beautiful.  “Why can’t it be both?”


	15. Counseling

 

 

 

Stiles lay across the couch in the living room, his arms flung out gracelessly, and stared up at the ceiling.  “I’ve lost count of how many people have tried to kill me.”  He murmured, thinking back.  “I didn’t even know some of them.  They wanted me dead because of who my friends are, or because of… things I had no control over.”  Stiles chuckled, but it was a weary sound.  “My dad’s a cop, but that only made it more dangerous for me and my friends most of the time.  Dad’s a good sheriff, but when it came to supernatural stuff, the department just couldn’t handle it, so we did.”  Stiles’ brows furrowed.  “I lost some friends.  And lots of other good people died, just because they were in the wrong place.”  Stiles turned to look at Tate, who straddled a dining room chair in the middle of the living room, absorbed in Stiles’ words.  “I died once, you know.”

Tate quirked a brow.  “How’d that work out for you?”

Stiles sighed and ran a hand down his face.  “It fucked me up.”

Tate shrugged.  “Dying will do that to you.”

Stiles frowned up at the ceiling again.  “For years, I had to make hard choices.  And I did.  I didn’t mind it.  I wanted to protect my friends, and my home.”  His frown deepened.  “Dying wasn’t the problem.  That was my choice, actually.  Coming back to life was the problem.  I uh… I wasn’t the same when I came back.”

Tate’s expression softened.  “I don’t imagine you would be.”

“I wasn’t…gone, and I wasn’t a ghost.  I was someplace else.  My friends and I… we went looking for answers.”

“Did you find them?”

“Yeah.  But… I brought something back with me.”

Tate’s eyes sharpened and he leaned forward in his seat.  “What was it?”

Stiles turned to look at the other boy.  The words were on the tip of his tongue: _Demon.  Nogitsune.  Void._ But he didn’t say them.  Instead he sighed, pushed himself up, and said, “It’s your turn.”

Tate shrugged and switched spots with Stiles.  He laid down and folded his hands comfortably across his stomach.  “I always sort of liked this part.”

“That’s right.  You said you used to see a shrink.”  Stiles folded his arms on the back of the chair and laid his chin on them.  “Did it help?”

Tate shrugged one shoulder.  “It might have, eventually.  But the cards were stacked against me.  So, no.  Not really.  I still liked going, though.”

“Why?”

“Someone to talk to.  It was nice.  Even if it was mostly bullshit.”  Tate twiddled his thumbs.  “I used to talk about the ghosts, when I was a kid.  They gave me medications for my delusions.”  He snorted.  “My mother switched me to a new doctor and I stopped taking the medication.”  He laughed, softly.  “Sometimes I wonder if it would have helped, if I’d taken the meds anyway.  Like… would I have stopped seeing the ghosts?  Would I have cared so much?  Maybe things wouldn’t have gotten to me so much if I was taking them.”  He shrugged.  “But then, maybe not.  The alcohol didn’t help.  The coke made it worse.”

“I can see how growing up here could mess you up.”

Tate chuckled.  “You have no idea.  You didn’t have to live with my mother.”

“So tell me about it.”  Stiles offered. 

“She was egotistical and cruel and a drunk.  She cared more about her image than she ever did her kids.”

Stiles perked up.  “You have siblings?”

Tate nodded.  “Two brothers and a sister.”

“Were you close with them?”

Tate smiled, genuinely, for the first time then.  “Yeah.  I love them.”  His smile wobbled.  “I told them I’d always protect them.  I guess I didn’t do such a good job with that.”

Stiles didn’t ask, because he thought the question might hurt too much.  For him as well as for Tate.  Stiles remembered slipping a blade into Scott’s gut, and turning it, just to hear him scream.  Yeah… best not to ask.

“I think….”  Tate stopped, closed his eyes, like he was unsure.

“What?”

“I think….”  His voice grew quieter, a bit wobbly.  “I think maybe my mom killed my dad.  And his mistress.”

“Whoa,” Stiles murmured.  “What makes you think that?”

“It’s just a feeling I have.”  Tate mumbled.  “I guess I’ve always wondered, ever since I was a kid.  I don’t think he would have just left us, and never come back.”

“What happened to your family?”

He frowned.  “They moved.”  He motioned to himself.  “After….”  He swallowed thickly.  “They couldn’t handle it, so they left.”

“What happened to you, Tate?”

“I told you.  Shot to death.  Right up in our bedroom.”

Stiles ignored the word “our,” and pressed, “Who was it?”

Tate shrugged, awfully blasé about his murderer.  “I don’t know his name.”

They were quiet for a moment, then Tate murmured, still staring at the ceiling.  “You said you’d done bad things.  What were they?”

Stiles shifted back in his seat.  “It’s not my turn.”

“I know,” Tate murmured, and he turned to look at Stiles.  “It’s just… I won’t judge you, you know.  I’ve done bad things, too.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

“So how’s your boyfriend?”  Chad asked, from behind Tate where he lingered in the hallway after Stiles had gone to school for the day.  “Ironic, don’t you think?”

Tate didn’t even bother to turn around.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t.”  Chad took a step closer, so that he was nearly even with Tate.  “I would tell you to leave him alone, but he seems to enjoy your company.”  Chad’s voice took on a sugary quality.  “I have to say, it filled me with a unique kind of joy to watch him kill you.”

“I’ll bet.”  Tate turned to look at him, then.  “But not as good as it would feel if you could do it yourself, right?  But your balls are just as useless now as they were when you were alive, right, Chad?”  Tate chuckled.  “I’m right here, and you still can’t do it.”

“Not all of us are as homicidal as you.”

“Oh, you are.  You’re just too chickenshit to do anything about it.”

“Maybe.  Maybe not.”

Tate snorted.  “Well, let me know when you figure it out.  I’ll be here.  Oh, and tell Patrick I send my regards.  If you can find him, that is.”

Chad rolled his eyes.  “Oh, go fuck yourself, you little psycho.”  He disappeared to the sound of Tate chuckling after him.


	16. Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I rewrote Chapter 1 for those of you who are interested. The original chapter was more of a placeholder while I was figuring this story out. I like the new one much better, and it now fits with this story :) Enjoy!

 

 

“Do you know anything about magic?”  Stiles asked, from where he was sprawled on his bed, amid a clutter of books. 

“Magic?”  Tate asked, quirking a brow.  He turned from Stiles’ bookshelf to give him his full attention.  “No.  I never believed in that stuff.”

“And yet….”  Stiles motioned to him.  “Ghosts you didn’t have a problem with?”

Tate shrugged.  “Yeah, well, I had proof of ghosts, didn’t I?  Magic, not so much.”  He waved at the books surrounding Stiles.  “But you believe in it.  Where did all of those come from, anyway?  I don’t remember seeing them on the shelf.”

“Package came today, from a friend in Beacon Hills.”  Stiles furrowed his brows.  “And I know it’s real.  It’s saved my life at least a few times.”  He glanced up and focused on Tate.  “I mean, I’ve seen werewolves and ghosts and monsters, and all kinds of shit.  They’ve tried to kill me, all of them.  But you know what I noticed?”

“What?”

“Magic always wins.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sheriff Stilinski gazed at his son from across the kitchen counter.  “I got a call from Scott today.”  He shoved his plate of fries away.  “It was sort of weird.”

“Huh.”  Stiles said, taking a bite of his burger.

“He said you haven’t been answering his calls.  He’s worried about you.”  His voice softened.  “Why haven’t you been answering the phone, Stiles?”

Stiles shrugged, but didn’t meet his dad’s eyes.  “I just… I need some time right now.  Whenever I talk to him, I just remember what happened, and it’s not helping.”

“What can I do to help, son?  Just tell me.”

“Just tell Scott I’m okay.  Or at least… I’m working on it.”

“Alright.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Do the things in the basement ever come out?”  Stiles wondered, sitting on the steps and staring into the dark depths.

“Sometimes.”  Tate wrapped his arms around himself.  “If they don’t get what they need down there, they come looking for it.”

“So one of them could try to kill me in my sleep?”

Tate shook his head.  “They could try, but I wouldn’t let them.”

“I don’t need you to protect me.”  Stiles muttered.

“Okay.”  Tate conceded. 

They were quiet for a time, then, simply sitting side by side, staring down into the darkness.  Then Stiles said “It was a demon.”

“What?”  Tate turned to look at him in the gloom.

“That I brought back with me from the in-between.  It was a demon.”

“Like a for-real demon?”

Stiles nodded.  “Way worse than anything that could be lurking in this basement.”

Tate swallowed.  “Did it try to kill you?”

Stiles shrugged stiffly.  “Eventually.  But it wanted to kill everyone I loved first.”  He shuddered involuntarily.  “It created more carnage than I’ve ever seen in my life.  And it was _happy_ about it.”

“Is that why you’re here?”  Tate whispered, “To get away from it?”

“No.”  Stiles murmured.  “It’s gone now.”

Tate couldn’t help his own shiver when he asked “What happened to it?”

Stiles stared straight into the darkness.  “I exorcised it.”


	17. Home Invasion Redux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken this chapter to new levels of fucked up. Just as a warning.

 

 

Of course it was a dark and stormy night.  It almost had to be.  Or maybe they just planned it that way.

Sheriff Stilinski was working late at the office, poring through evidence lockers and old files to try to figure out a case that had been bothering him for some time, now.  Stiles didn’t know what it was about, and he didn’t care.  His dad had always told him it wasn’t his business, and he was inclined to agree with him now.

He lay on the couch in the living room, the tv tuned to some bullshit reality show, while he pored over one of the books that Deaton had sent him.

The house was quiet.  No one had bothered Stiles for nearly two days now.

The show was about some cooking competition.  One of the men faced the camera and droned on about how _haricot vert_ was just a snobby ass term for green beans.  Stiles snorted in agreement.

And then the power went out.

Stiles closed his book and sat up, his eyes adjusting quickly in the darkness….  “Hey guys,” he called to all of the restless spirits of the house, “if that was you, I’d appreciate you turning my fucking tv back on!”

No one responded.

“Hey guys!”  Stiles called again, unfolding himself from the couch.  Outside, the thunder rumbled and lightning flashed.  Heavy drops of rain beat at the windows and roof.  He maneuvered his way through the darkness without a light.  He could hear his own breath mingled with the sounds of the storm raging outside.

Something crashed near the back of the house, and Stiles felt a chill go up his spine.  He was nearly to the entrance hall when he heard the doorknob on the front door squeak as it turned slowly back and forth, working open.  His breath caught in his throat and he reached into his pocket for his phone but found nothing, remembering too late that he’d left it up in his room because Lydia kept calling and he hadn’t wanted to talk.  _Damn it._ The doorknob twisted again and a weight threw itself against the door, shaking it.  Stiles tripped backwards towards the hall, to get away from whatever was trying to come through the door.

Suddenly, the floor creaked behind him, and before he could turn, something cracked him on the head, and then there was darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

He woke on a sharp slap to his face, to see three dark shadows hovering around him, with pale faces just visible in the darkness.

“Wakey, wakey,” one of the shadows said, and it was a woman’s voice.  “We can’t have you sleep through the fun part.”

Stiles shook his head and the house tilted around him.  “Who are you?”  He croaked.  “What do you want?”

One of the others, also a woman, came forward.  “We’re artists, and fans.”

“What?”  Stiles narrowed his eyes—the headache he was sporting pulsed painfully, like a fucking spike through his head.  “What are you talking about?  Who are you?”

“Don’t you know you live in the Murder House?”  The first woman said.

“What the hell?”  Stiles snarled.

“Thirteen deaths confirmed, and probably at least a couple more,” A new voice explained.  This one was a man, and he sounded slightly awed when he said “This was the site of famous serial killings.  Crazy medical experiments.  Suicide.  The home of a mass murderer.”  Stiles could see the man smile through the gloom.  “Like strokes on a painting.  And tonight we’re going to add another.”

“That’s you, sweetness.”  The second woman said.

Stiles almost couldn’t comprehend what they were saying.  _Murder House.  Fans._ “You’re human.”  Stiles breathed.

“But after tonight, we’ll be famous.”  Said the first woman.

The laugh shocked everyone, especially Stiles when he realized he was the one laughing.

“Shut up!”  The first woman snarled, backhanding him. 

Stiles tasted blood, but he kept laughing.  He couldn’t help it.  _Werewolves.  Kanimas.  Ghosts.  Demons.  Humans._ The laugh wasn’t his own, not really.  It was a dark rolling thunder that built from the depths of him and spilled forth without his permission.  It was a touch of insanity—that after everything, it was three humans who were gonna do him in.  Ironic didn’t touch this.

“I said SHUT UP!”  The woman roared.  She hit him again and his head rocked back.  Still he laughed.  The sound was blood and crunching bone, the chill of a desolate basement, and the rage of a thousand years, locked up and starved, and _awake._ Just beneath the sound of his own insane laughing, Stiles heard the basement door creak open.  “Don’t you realize we’re going to _kill you?!”_ The woman screeched.

His laughter echoed as thunder shook the house.  Inside him, a door yawned wide, a coil of chains pooled at its base.  His muscles went loose and he slumped in the seat they’d tied him to.  His eyes focused on movement in the dark, and his laughter bubbled forth once again, before dying on his lips.

Suddenly, another shadow appeared behind the first woman, and a familiar, purring voice said “So, you want to be famous?”  Before the woman was yanked backwards and a flash of metal caught the sparse light, glinting as a pale hand pulled it across the woman’s throat and she dropped to the floor, gurgling on her own blood as she died.  Her companions turned and screamed, outraged and terrified, confused by the sudden appearance of someone they hadn’t accounted for.

Tate dodged away from their grasping hands, and when he ran around the corner, they followed.  Stiles struggled against the ropes that bound his hands, frustrated at having been left behind, defenseless.  “Hold on,” a sultry voice murmured in his ear, then.  He felt the ropes loosen and his hands gained movement.  “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”  The voice added, and when Stiles turned, he caught sight of a beautiful red-headed woman in a maid’s outfit before she dissolved into thin air.

Now free, Stiles made his way through the darkened house, following the sounds of childish cackling and banging.  “They’re upstairs,” Patrick said, materializing out of the gloom.  Stiles made his way to the staircase, but he got there just in time to see the two strangers push Tate from the top so that his body tumbled down the stairs to land at the bottom with a sickening crack, his neck bent at a weird angle near Stiles’ feet, his dark eyes wide and unseeing.

“The little son of a bitch stabbed me!”  The man hissed.

“Don’t worry about that now!”  The woman chided.  Then she caught sight of Stiles.  “Look, there he is!  Let’s get him before he gets away!”  They thundered down the stairs after him, leaping over Tate’s still body at the bottom.

Stiles drew them back toward the living room, his pulse beating heavily in his ears.  They followed him closely and he cursed at not having found a weapon of his own.  He leapt over the couch and put his back to the window so that he could watch the furious man and woman track him into the room, effectively barring his escape.

“Your little friend’s dead!”  The man snarled.  “And now you’re next.  No more fucking around.”  He dove at Stiles, but Stiles dodged him easily, ducking under his arms and smacking him in the stomach as he went, catching the patch of blood on the man’s shirt that showed where Tate had stabbed him.  “Fuck!”  The man cried, spinning.

The woman tried to circle around Stiles, to keep him pinned down, but Stiles moved with her.  They had nothing on werewolf speed or reflexes.  They had nothing on supernatural strength.

“You came into my house,” Stiles panted, his eyes narrowed.  “You came here to kill me, but you have no idea what the fuck you walked into.”

“You’re just a boy!”  The woman cried.  “Little more than the crying bitch we practiced on!”  She lunged at Stiles with a knife of her own, but he skipped backwards, out of her reach.  “You killed Fiona!  Now we’re gonna slice you up and paint your blood on the walls!”  She launched herself at him again, but Stiles caught her easily and spun, wrenching her arm as he did, so that she angled the blade toward her own belly.  “No!”  She hissed.  “No!!!” 

“Yes,” Stiles snarled, and thrust the blade into her gut.  A wet gush of blood pulsed over their joined hands, hot and thick, before Stiles jerked back, the blade in his hand now.  The woman groaned, her fingers pawing at her gut, as if to hold the blood in. 

“No,” she moaned, collapsing to her knees.  “Oh, God.”  She whined.

The man eyed Stiles warily, and he tightened his grip on his own knife. 

“You picked the wrong house.”  Stiles informed him.

“We’ll see, you little shit.  I’ll shut you up for good.”

Stiles laughed and the sound echoed weirdly in the house again.  Behind him, the other woman whimpered “Oh, God.  I’m dying.  Oh, God.” 

“You won’t kill me.”  Stiles said.  “You can’t.”

The man leapt at Stiles, his blade swinging down toward his face, but Stiles dodged and swung his own blade up, slicing next to the wound that Tate had already inflicted.  The man yelped and dropped his knife.  Stiles kicked it away and clung to the other man, pulling him close.  He thrust the knife again, cutting deep.  The man grunted and tried to jerk back.  “Oh, God.”  The woman moaned behind them, once more, before she slumped over, unmoving.  Stiles drove the blade into the man’s belly again and again, fueled purely by adrenaline at this point.  The man stared at him, eyes wide and disbelieving, as his life drained from him.  He tried to jerk away, but Stiles held him tight.  All of the fear and rage poured from his body and into this other man, the one who wanted him dead, who would have killed Stiles for an eye-catching headline.

Stiles watched the life drain from the man’s eyes as he seemed to realize he was dead.  He stopped fighting, and when Stiles released him, he slumped to the floor, unmoving, gone.

Stiles stood in the living room, panting, surveying the carnage before him.  Blood coated his hands and arms, splashed across his face and neck.  It was thick on his fingers and forearms, dark red and still warm, though cooling rapidly. 

He raised his hands to inspect them more closely.  It had been so easy.  Too easy, almost, to kill humans, after all of the other things he’d fought.  A swell of sickness went through him, but he pushed it back determinedly.  They’d tried to _kill_ him.  They’d tied him up and threatened him, and waved knives in his face.  Those bastards all deserved what they got.  Stiles wasn’t a victim.  He’d never be a victim again.

The blood was cooling quickly, becoming sticky already.  Something dark possessed him, then, and he raised his hand to his mouth, fascinated by the slippery dark sheen.  He leaned forward and licked the blood off one of his fingers, a zing of forbidden, dark pleasure racing through him as the coppery taste hit his tongue.

Across the room, a low voice groaned and murmured, “It’s good, isn’t it?”

Stiles looked up to see Tate standing there watching him, eyes dark and neck no longer broken.  Stiles licked the blood off another finger and Tate whined, but kept himself still.  Stiles met his eyes across the gloom and slowly walked towards him, across the dead bodies and pooling blood.  Tate’s eyes flickered across Stiles’ face as he drew close, and his chest heaved with anticipation.  Stiles reached out, slowly, and dragged his hand across Tate’s face, smearing blood on his lips as he went.  Tate moaned and his eyes fluttered shut.  His tongue darted out to taste it, to savor it.  He almost seemed to quiver with the need for more.

The darkness reared up in Stiles and he moved forward, tangling his bloody hands in Tate’s hair as he pulled his head down and slotted their lips together.  The kiss was firm but gentle, an exploration, and a thank you, and they could taste the blood of their would-be-killers on each other’s mouths.  Stiles’ heart kicked into high gear and he pushed forward, into the surprising warmth of Tate, who allowed Stiles to push him against the wall, and press their bodies together.  They clung to each other in the dark, but Stiles eventually pulled back, his teeth dragging on Tate’s bottom lip as he did.

“Fuck.”  Tate muttered, his eyes glazed.  Smears of blood still covered his face.

“Yeah.”  Stiles agreed.  Then he pulled away and looked around himself again, trying to come to terms with the fact that there were 3 dead bodies lying in his living room.  “I need to figure out what to do with them.”

“I can handle it.”  Tate said.  “If you want.”

 

* * *

 

 

So Stiles allowed Tate to lead him to the bathroom and clean him up a bit.  Then he helped Tate to move the bodies around, arranging them slightly until the other boy was satisfied.

Within the recesses of the house, the other ghosts were quiet, watching, presumably satisfied at having done their parts.

The next part was harder.  Stiles sat back down in the chair and submitted to Tate tying his hands behind his back.  Then the dark-eyed boy gagged him and blind-folded him.  “Don’t worry,” Tate whispered from behind him, as Stiles settled in to wait.  “I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was nearly two excruciating hours later that Sheriff Stilinski arrived home to find the horror that awaited him: His son, bound and gagged, helpless and terrified amid the carnage of blood-spatter and dead bodies.  He called in for back-up, then rushed to aid his son, who was still in shock from everything he’d endured that evening.

Later, when another officer was taking his statement, the Sheriff stood back and listened while Stiles shook with nerves and murmured, “They said they wanted to be famous.”  He gazed at a sticky pool of blood on the floor.  “They tied me up, gagged, and blindfolded me.”  His shoulder shrugged spasmodically.  “There was nothing I could do.  I couldn’t move.  I couldn’t call for help.  I thought they were going to kill me.  But I heard them kill each other, instead.”  He closed his eyes and hung his head.  “What sort of person does something like this?”


	18. New Arrivals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *continues to cackle evilly*

 

 

Moira cocked her hip and folded her arms across her chest, effectively pushing her breasts up to peek over her lacy bra and uniform.  She frowned, her eyes and dark-red lips both showing her displeasure.  “You didn’t think it through before you did it.”

Tate huffed and leaned back against the counter, his pose mirroring hers.  “Don’t act like you didn’t help.”

“I let the boy go, but I didn’t kill those people!”

“Like I had much choice.  What was I supposed to do?  Let them kill him?”

Moira pouted.  “No, of course not.”  They both knew everyone was a bit fond of Stiles.  “But you could have tried harder to get them off the property before they died.”

Tate rolled his eyes.  “Yeah, well it was a little hard to do with a broken neck.”  He shrugged.  “Besides, I’m not the one who did the worst.  That was Stiles.  You saw what he did.”

Moira’s disapproving frown deepened.  “Yeah, and I caught the after show as well.  Be careful with him.”

Tate narrowed his eyes.  “I don’t need _you_ of all people to lecture me on relationships.”

Moira smirked.  “Is that what this is?  A relationship?  You take turns tormenting each other?”

Tate shrugged.  “Don’t judge.”  He ran his hands up his arms, fidgeting.  “I give him what he needs.”

Moira rolled her eyes.  “Out of the goodness of your heart, I’m sure.”

Tate ignored the jab.  What did she know, anyway?

“We can’t control them much longer.  They’re going to find their way out of the basement sooner or later.  You need to do something about them, Tate.”

Tate frowned.  “Fine.  I’ll deal with it.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sheriff Stilinski gazed worriedly at his son from across the living room.  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Stiles shrugged and looked up at his dad.  “Yeah, I’m fine.  I’ll… I’ll _be_ fine.”  The sheriff just continued to stare at his son.  “Seriously, dad.  I’m fine.  You can go to work.”

“I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“Look.  It was terrible, okay?  _Terrifying._ I’m not gonna lie.  I thought I was going to die that night.  But all things considered, it’s still not the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, ya know?”  Stiles shrugged, but the movement was jerky, belying his statements.  “I survived everything else up ‘til now.  I’ll survive this, too.”

“I want you to keep your phone on you from now on.”

“Yeah, trust me, dad, I’m already on top of that.”  Stiles patted his pants pocket. 

“I’m gonna call and check up on you.  And I want you to call me if anything weird happens.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it, Stiles.  _Anything._ You’re supposed to be… getting _better,_ here.”  The sheriff shrugged.  “You can’t do that if you’re fighting for your life all the time.”

“I know.”

“I still don’t like leaving you.”

“I’ll be fine, dad.  I can look after myself.”

“I know that, bud.  I do.  But maybe you should let someone else help look after you for a while, huh?”  The sheriff stood and patted his son on the shoulder.  “Just think about it, okay?”  He fidgeted for a second, unsure, before he added, “I love you, kid.”

Stiles forced a smile.  “Love you too, dad.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They paced ceaselessly, dark balls of energy begging for release.  The air around them chilled and they hissed and howled, like monsters instead of people.  The other ghosts, the older ones, had effectively penned them in so that they were confined to the dark corners of the basement, and they could not get out.

After some… questioning, and some explanation, the new arrivals had identified themselves as Bianca, Fiona, and Dallas.  They were true crime enthusiasts, and endeavored to become famous serial killers themselves.  They’d chosen the house for its history.  Stiles had just been a bonus.  They hadn’t even known his name when they’d decided to kill him.

Tate watched them pace for a while, his eyes narrowed in the darkness.  They were new and dumb—they hadn’t figured out anything yet, but they would, eventually.  As much as Tate hated to admit it, Moira was right.  They had to get this mess sorted out pronto.

After a time, Tate strode forward and said “Hey, assholes.  Listen up.”

They turned as one to face him, their eyes full of rage over being newly dead.  “ _You,”_ Bianca hissed, “It’s your fault we’re dead!”

“Yeah, and I’d gladly kill you again, so shut the fuck up and listen.”

“Wait a second,” Fiona said, coming closer.  “I know you.”  Her eyes grew wide and she burst out laughing, clapping her hands.  “Oh my God, you’re him!  You’re Tate Langdon!”

The others jerked their eyes back and forth between Fiona and Tate.  “Is… is it really?”  Bianca wondered.  “But he’s dead.”

Fiona rolled her eyes.  “Yeah, no duh.  And so are we.  Get with the program, Bee.”  She turned her attention back to Tate.  “You’re really him.  I know so much about you!  I really admire your work.”

Tate gazed back at her, unfazed.  “If you know anything about me, then you know what I’m capable of.”  The three of them nodded.  “The boy you tried to kill—he’s mine.”

“Your…?”

“ _Mine._ ”  Tate snarled.  “If anyone lays a finger on him, I’ll kill them.  Again.”  He gazed at Dallas, who still bore the bloody stab wound Tate had given him.  “Trust me.  It hurts like a bitch every single time, and I don’t get tired.”  Tate pointed in Fiona’s face.  “So welcome to Murder House.  I run this show.  If you listen to me, I’ll let you out.”  Tate smiled, but it wasn’t a nice one.  “But if you don’t, you’ll spend the rest of your miserable existence trapped down here in this basement.  You understand?”

“So what do we have to do to get out?”  Bianca asked.

“Follow my lead.  Do what I tell you.”

Fiona bounced on her toes like a giddy kid.  “You mean like… we’ll get to help you?”  She beamed.  “We’re such big fans of yours, really.  You’re the reason we chose this house out of a dozen others, isn’t it, Dallas?”

Dallas nodded, his eyes hooded as he gazed at Tate through the gloom of the basement. 

Tate crossed his arms over his chest to make himself look more imposing.  “You can help me, but you must do what I say.  First rule—no one messes with Stiles _at all_.  I swear to you, if any of you break that rule, I’ll hurt you so bad your deaths will feel like a fucking picnic.  Understood?”

“Understood.”  They chorused.


	19. Druid

 

 

“I just can’t get over how ironic it all is,” Chad said.  Both he and Tate stood and watched Stiles do his homework, unseen.

“What?”  Tate muttered, not paying the other ghost much attention. 

“That the little homophobe has a boyfriend now.” 

Tate glared at Chad out of the corner of his eye.  “I didn’t kill you because you’re gay.”  Tate insisted.

“Oh, no?” Chad pressed.

“No.  I killed you because you were pathetic, and I didn’t like you.  I killed Patrick because he was an asshole… and I felt like it.”

“And we just _happened_ to be two gay men.”  Chad snorted.  “Sorry, but your method of murder says otherwise.”

“You’re wrong.”  Tate murmured.  He cocked his head when Stiles rose from his bed and pulled a new book from the shelf—it was one of the ones his friend Deaton had sent him.  “I was perfectly content to let the both of you live, because you wanted a baby and that made Nora happy.  But then you two went and fucked your relationship up and nixed that plan.”

“So you killed us because we were having a rough patch?!”

“And you were boring as hell,” Tate said, turning to glare at Chad.  “You still are, so why don’t you go away and leave me alone?”

Chad stared at Tate for a moment, his jaw clenching, before he said “I helped you the night those murderers broke in.  I _helped_ you and I helped him,” he nodded at Stiles.  “But that doesn’t mean shit right now.  You took my life from me.  I want to see you hurt.”

“Join the club,” Tate muttered.

“Speaking of,” Chad said, his voice returning to a conversational tone, “I hear you have a new fan club.”

Tate shrugged.  “I didn’t ask for that.”

“Who would have thought, someone like you could inspire such loyalty.”  Chad snorted.  “It’s a crazy, fucked up world, isn’t it?”

Tate nodded.  “That’s something we can finally agree on.”

 

* * *

 

 

Tate settled at the other end of the bed from Stiles, glancing curiously at the book the other boy held in his hands.  “Anything interesting?”

Stiles smiled at Tate over the edge of the book.  “I’m reading up on exorcisms.”

Tate leaned back, frowning.  “Exorcisms.”

“Yeah.  Seems useful, don’t you think?”

Tate settled back, away from Stiles.  He folded his arms tight around his middle, hugging himself.  “So… who are you thinking of exorcising?”

“Calm down,” Stiles laughed, shutting the book and putting it aside.  “Not you.”  He frowned.  “Not anyone, really.  Not unless I need to.”  He shrugged.  “But it’s a useful tool to have in my arsenal.  I’m never gonna let myself get caught off guard again.  And it’s part of my training.”

“Training?”

Stiles motioned toward the book.  “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been doing.”

Tate frowned, but sat forward again, momentarily relieved.  “Who is this friend of yours, again?”

“Deaton.  He’s the local veterinarian in Beacon Hills.  Scott’s boss.”  He shrugged.  “He’s a friend.  He helped me out of my… situation… with the demon.  Or at least, he tried to.”

“But what sort of training?”  Tate pushed.  “These are a bunch of pretty weird books he sent you.”

“He’s a druid.  He used to be an emissary for the Beacon Hills pack.  Now he’s an independent practioner.”

“A druid?  What’s that?”

“Sort of like a witch, I guess.  Someone who practices magic.  It’s the druids’ responsibility to uphold balance, and protect people.”

“So you’re… training to be a…druid, then?”  Tate sounded skeptical.

“Yeah, I am.  After the Nogitsune, I knew things had to change.  I won’t ever let something like that happen to me again.”

“You never said,” Tate wheedled, “what exactly this demon did to you.  Did it stalk you or something?”

Stiles stared at the dark-eyed boy, all wrapped up in his own arms, and looking unsure of himself, despite his bravado. Stiles pushed away a shudder.  “It possessed me.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They sat, knees and shoulders touching, on the top step of the basement stairs, gazing down into the darkness together.  Deep below, they heard chatter—layers of voices whispering and talking over each other, many conversations happening at once, so that no single voice could be heard.  It was eerie.

“Were they your first?”  Tate asked, “People you killed, I mean.”

“No.”  Stiles whispered.  “You?”

“No.”

“Alright.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I know you’re worried about something.”  Stiles said.  He knew Tate was there, even before the other boy appeared at his side out on the front porch.  The sun was going down and the air was cooling toward fall.

“I’m not worried.”  Tate protested, squaring his shoulders.

“You are.  I’ve felt it for the last week.  What is it?”

“It’s nothing.  Just… some of the others are restless.”

“Restless.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t need you to protect me.”  Stiles said, reaching into his pocket.  “I can take care of myself.”

“I know that.”  Tate insisted.  “It’s just… there are terrible things in this house.  Terrible things… down there.  And they’re always hungry.  They always want blood.  Nothing ever satisfies them.”

Stiles pulled out his rowan-bead rosary from his pocket.  “Remember this?”

“Of course.”

“Catch.”  Stiles tossed it toward Tate, and the other boy reached out instinctively to catch it, but he disappeared before he could touch it, and the wood clattered onto the porch.

Stiles was alone for about 20 minutes before Tate reappeared, panting and wide-eyed.  “Holy shit,” he muttered.

“Sorry about that,” Stiles said.  “But do you understand now?”

“Yeah, I guess.”  Tate rubbed his hands over his arms, chilled from the effects still.

“Here,” Stiles said, reaching into his other pocket.  “I got you something.”

Tate leaned away, cautious now.  But then his eyes widened and a genuine, thankful smile curved his lips when Stiles handed over the little box of cigarettes.  “Wow, this is….”  Tate fumbled the box open, his fingers shaking as he put one in his mouth.  Stiles handed over a lighter and Tate lit the end, drawing deep on the smoke.  “God, this is almost better than sex.”  His eyes fluttered shut and he tipped his head back, happy for the moment simply to inhale.  “Thanks,” he said, cracking an eye so he could see the other boy.  “It’s been forever.”

Stiles shrugged.  “I know.”  A small smile crossed his face.  “And you didn’t even need to kill anyone for it.”


	20. Progress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it suddenly got a bit explicit. I wasn't sure if it would, but Stiles and Tate have decided. Good luck trying to control those two....

 

 

 

“I just want you to come home.”

Stiles closed his eyes and tightened his grip on the phone.  “I know.  I want that too, but….”

“But what?” Scott pressed.

“But I can’t, yet.”

“Why not?”  Scott’s voice took on the stubborn tone that Stiles was familiar with, the tone that meant Scott was willing to face down the rest of the world if it meant helping him.

“Because it’s not safe yet.”

“Stiles… the Nogitsune is gone.  The threat is gone.  It’s just the pack now.  And we’ll help you through this.  I promise.”

“I know, Scott.  I know that.  But I can’t come home until I know that I won’t hurt anyone again.”

Scott was quiet for a time, then.  They simply listened to each other breathe, and Stiles knew that his best friend was suffering just as much as he was over this.  “When?”  Scott finally breathed, almost like he was afraid to ask.

“I don’t know.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Tate gasped and his wrists strained against the ropes that bound them.  Stiles grinned down darkly at him from where he straddled the other boy’s waist.  “You could just get out of it, you know.”  He murmured.  “You could just will yourself someplace else and disappear.  So why don’t you?”

“Because you want me here.”  Tate gulped.  He closed his eyes and tipped his head back when Stiles leaned down to nip lightly at his throat.  It bobbed under his ministrations and Tate twisted his wrists again.  Stiles chuckled against his skin, and Tate’s hips bucked.

“And would you be so willing to stay if I really _did_ have all the control?”

Tate rolled his hips up into the other boy, shuddering at the glorious friction.  It had been too long.  “ _Yes,”_ he hissed.

Stiles laughed.  “Wanna find out?”  Tate’s eyes cracked open and he gazed up at the other boy curiously.  Stiles ran his fingers over the ropes where they tied Tate’s wrists to Stiles’ bed posts.  “ _Vinculum,”_ he whispered.  Then he sat back.  “Give it a try.”

Tate tugged at the ropes again, simply to appease Stiles.  But when Stiles only raised an eyebrow at the attempt, Tate rolled his eyes and willed himself to disappear.  Only… he didn’t.  Nothing happened.  _Nothing happened._ His eyes widened in panic, and he tugged at the rope again.  “ _What did you do?”_ He hissed, feeling a tingle of fear for the first time since before he’d died.

Stiles laughed.  “I just learned how to bind a ghost.”

Tate heaved in a breath and cast his eyes sideways, just so that he wouldn’t have to look at Stiles’ face for a moment.  “Those books teach you that?”

“Among other things.”  Stiles sat back again, settling himself over Tate’s lap.  “Do you still want to play, or are we done here?”

Tate shivered at the tone.  Stiles really did have some control over him now, it wasn’t just pretend.  It should have scared him, or upset him, or enraged him.  But it didn’t.  He actually found himself… enjoying it.  Knowing the other boy could keep him here, bound, in his bed, for as long as he wanted.  “Do whatever you want with me,” Tate panted, his dick making a valiant effort to strain against his jeans.

Stiles grinned and ground his hips down against Tate’s, just enough to make the other boy squirm.  “You know, I never fooled around with a guy before I came here.  You’re the first.”

“Me,” Tate panted, his eyes rolling back, “me too.”

“So this is new, then,” Stiles murmured, scraping his teeth against Tate’s bottom lip as his fingers worked at the button of Tate’s jeans, then pulled the zipper down easily.

“ _Yes,”_ Tate gasped.  God, he was desperate for it, for anything, for whatever Stiles wanted to give him.  It had been too long since someone had given him this, since someone had shown any interest.  How had things turned so quickly?  How had he found himself at this boy’s mercy?

“And this?”  Stiles asked, as his hand slipped into Tate’s pants and those long, thin fingers wrapped around him.

“Oh, God.”  Tate moaned.  “Yes.  Yes.”

“What do you want?”  Stiles whispered in Tate’s ear before he sucked the lobe into his mouth and bit it.

“Anything!  Everything!  _You,_ ” Tate groaned.  “Please.”

Stiles tightened his grip and began to move his fist up and down, slowly, torturously.  “I like the way that sounds.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles was whistling to himself when he settled at the table for breakfast and tucked into the pancakes and eggs he found waiting for him there.  “Thanks, dad,” he muttered from around a bite of pancake.  “This is great.  What’s the occasion?”

Sheriff Stilinski observed his son warily before saying “I had the morning off and just thought it might cheer you up.  But… you seem to be in a good mood already.”

“Yep.”  Stiles took another bite of pancake.  “It’s a good day.”

“Actually,” his dad said, “You seem to be doing better lately.  More… yourself… than you have been in a while.”

Stiles paused and thought about it for a minute.  “You know… I _am_ doing better.  Maybe it’s all the studying I’m doing for Deaton.”

The sheriff shrugged.  “Whatever it is, I’m glad it’s working.  It’s nice to see you smile again, bud.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She was bent over the counter, her skirt flipping up dangerously as she ran a sponge over the granite, when he happened to walk into the kitchen.  Stiles stopped in the doorway when he noticed her, and simply watched for a moment until she turned and glanced at him coquettishly over her shoulder.  “Can I help you with something?”  She purred.

Stiles shrugged and moved around her to the other side of the counter, where he pulled up a chair.  “I never thanked you for that night.”

Moira’s eyebrows furrowed and she pulled back, straightening and pulling her skirt down just a bit, suddenly dropping the pretense.  “I was happy to help.”  She said, sounding strangely serious suddenly.

Stiles ran a finger over the squeaky clean surface of the counter-top.  “Why did you, though?”

Moira shrugged and leaned back casually against the breakfast bar.  “I didn’t want anyone else to die here.”

Stiles frowned.  “But 3 others died.”

“I know.  And I hate it.  But… better them than you, I guess.”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because you’re a good person.”

Stiles snorted.  “No, I’m not.  If you knew half the things I’ve done….”

“I’ve seen some of your handiwork, and I could guess at some of the other things, but that’s not my point.  You don’t _like_ those things.  You don’t _like_ being that way.  You’re trying to get better.”

Stiles chose not to respond to that, because she was sort of right, but it burned that she was so perceptive.  “Why do you stay here?”

Moira snorted.  “I don’t have any other choice.  My body is buried in the backyard.  I _can’t_ leave.”

“And the others?”

“They’re all trapped here too, same as me.”

“If you _could_ leave, would you?”

“In an instant.”

“Why?”  Stiles wondered.

“I’m tired of death,” Moira whispered, and she suddenly sounded much older than her perky features hinted at.  “I’m tired of watching other people die.  I just want it all to be… over.”

“Do you think the others would leave, too?”

Moira’s eyes narrowed and she frowned.  “Some of them would.  Some of them are just as tired as me.  But others… no.  They wouldn’t go.  They _like_ what they are.  They _like_ killing.  And they’ll never stop.  Not ever.”


	21. Weakness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Cackling forever* This is winding up quite nicely. Also, I fucking love writing Chad. XD

 

 

 

Tate paced back and forth in the dark, his hands tucked under his arms defensively.  His shoes shuffled against the dusty cement floor, kicking up puffs of dust as he moved.  “This isn’t right,” he mumbled under his breath.  “This shouldn’t be happening.  It can’t happen.  It’s not right.”  He moved back and forth, back and forth. 

Chad appeared then, leaning against the wall across from Tate’s forward progress.  “Something wrong?”

“Fuck off,” Tate muttered. 

“Ooooh, that one hurt.”  Chad drawled, throwing a hand over his heart.  “You can do better than that, can’t you?”  Chad quirked a brow and smirked.  “Unless… are you having… _performance issues?_ ” He stage whispered. 

“I’m not!”  Tate growled.  “I’ll kill you again if you don’t shut up.”

“Admit it,” Chad laughed, “you’re his bitch.”

Fiona materialized out of the darkness like she’d been silently watching and listening, just waiting for an opportunity to strike.  She stormed forward into Chad’s space, snarling, “Shut your filthy goddamn mouth!”

“Or what?”  Chad drawled.  He gazed over her head to where Tate had paused in his pacing and was now watching this new scene unfold.  “Are you going to defend his honor?  I’m shaking in my Armani’s.”

“Let me tear his throat out,” Fiona growled, practically begging.

“No,” Tate huffed.  “I don’t need you to fight for me.  Ignore him.  He’s still just pissed because I killed him.”

“It’s not true, though!”  She hissed.  “You’re no one’s bitch!”

Chad laughed and it echoed weirdly in the basement.  “Oh sweetheart, you only say that because you missed the show.  Oh, he moaned and begged, and squirmed when that boy put his hands on him.”

“He’s not gay!” 

“No.  You’re right.  I have it all wrong.”  Chad sighed dramatically.  “I must have imagined the way he panted with another man’s hands on his cock.”  Chad flicked his eyes back to Tate over Fiona’s shoulder.  “Or were you just panting because the ropes were too tight?”

“You’re a fucking liar!”  Fiona growled, getting right up in Chad’s face.  “Tell him!”  She snarled at Tate over her shoulder. 

“Of course he’s lying.”  Tate deadpanned.  “He’s just bitter because he _still_ doesn’t get any action.”

Chad pouted mockingly.  “Whatever you have to tell yourself.”  He smirked at Fiona.  “Take good care of him, will you, sweetheart?  He’s pretty fragile these days.”  Then Chad disappeared again, but his laughter continued to echo in the basement long after he was gone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s not true,” Tate growled.  He punched the brick and his knuckles split easily.  It wasn’t the first time he’d done it today.  “I’m not like that.  I don’t owe him shit.  He doesn’t control me.”  He hit the wall again and felt his skin tear.  “I manipulate _him,_ not the other way around!”  He slammed both fists into the wall, but it didn’t help.  It never seemed to help anymore.  It wasn’t enough, and he could never get a single fucking moment alone to think.  Fiona and her minions were always following him around, popping up, asking him what they should do, seeking his approval.  Moira was right.  He should have let them die somewhere else.  He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe.  But all he could see was Stiles.  Dark, honey eyes and a wicked smirk.  Strong, ruthless hands.  “Fuck!” He snarled.  “I can’t let him get away with this.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Tate watched Stiles sleep.  He always watched him sleep.  Stiles lay sprawled on the bed, his arms dangling limply over the edges.  His body was too big for the little frame.  He tossed and mumbled to himself.  Another nightmare.

It’d be so easy for Tate to wrap his fingers around Stiles’ throat and just _squeeze._ Just drain the life out of him, and prove that _he_ was the one in control.  _He_ was the one to fear.  This was Tate’s house.  He could kill Stiles so easily, but then he’d be stuck with the boy _forever._ And maybe whatever this was would never get better.  Maybe it’d get worse over the years, and Tate really _would_ become like Chad said. 

But it wasn’t true, now.  It wasn’t real.  It was all just a game, just a way to pass the time.  Tate was corrupting him, ruining him, destroying him.  Stiles was cold-blooded, dark, and fucked up so badly now that he might never heal.  That was Tate’s doing.  He was proud of himself.

He’d been standing there so long, brooding and so concerned with his own thoughts, that it wasn’t until Stiles spoke that he even realized the other boy was awake.  “You want to hurt _me_ now, right?”

And God, that felt like a sucker punch to the gut.  All of the air left Tate, and he felt like his world had just gotten smaller.  “No,” he found himself whispering, almost like it was true.  “I never want to hurt you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They jumped him in the hallway on his way to grab a midnight snack.  He felt them before he saw them, but it still wasn’t enough time to react before they slammed him back into the wall, Dallas and Bianca holding him there with iron-vice grips.  Fiona was in his face a second later, one hand fisted in his hair, the other holding a knife to his throat.  It was a fucked up parody of the night they’d first tried to kill him.

“I’m gonna slit your throat from ear to ear like I should have done weeks ago.”  She snarled.

Stiles could barely swallow—he did and it pressed his throat into the blade, just enough that he felt it cut, felt blood bead on his skin.

“The others think he’s weak, but he’s not weak!  _You’re the weak one!_   You!  It’s all because of you.”

“The fuck,” Stiles gasped.

“Shut your mouth!”  Fiona growled.  “You’ve caused enough problems already.”

“Kill him, Fee!”  Dallas urged.  “Just do it!”

“Yeah, Fee!”  Stiles gasped, the blade continuing to bite into his skin.  “Do it!”

Fiona blinked rapidly and took a step back, obviously confused.  “What?”  She blinked again.  “You stupid little fuck, we’re going to kill you!”

“That’s what you said the last time,” Stiles mocked.  “But the three of you died instead!”  He didn’t even bother struggling against his captors.  “You really think you wanna be stuck here with me for eternity?  Do it!  I fucking dare you!”  When they were silent, Stiles tipped his head back and laughed, even though it hurt like a bitch to do it.  “You’re all talk, aren’t you?”  He continued to laugh.  “Does Tate know you’re here?  I wonder what he’d do if he found out?”  Stiles chuckled, and he could feel his eyes growing darker with the pleasure of his rage.  “You say he’s not weak, but… if he’s not, then why are you here fighting for him?”  He smirked.  “That’s not very convincing, is it?” Dallas and Bianca both tightened their grips, obviously unsure of the direction of the conversation.  “And what would it achieve, really, killing me?”

Fiona looked stunned, at a loss for words.

“You’d only guarantee that I spend forever with him.  You realize that, don’t you?”

“Shut up!”  Bianca hissed in his ear.

“But maybe you’re just as stupid as you are jealous.  I bet it really bothers you, doesn’t it?  That you practically worship him, that you were willing to kill for him, and he what….?  Ignores you?  Gives you excuses?”  Stiles chuckled.  “You wish he’d fuck you, don’t you?  All that dark energy.  You want it focused on you, and only you.  You pine away for him in the darkness but he’s not there.  He’s with me.  He’s not interested in you.  He _wants_ me.  God, I hope that drives you fucking nuts.  I hope that you just can’t stand it!  I love it!  Really, I do.”

Stiles turned his head lazily to look at Dallas and Bianca before focusing on Fiona again.  “Now let me go before I lose my temper.  Last time, I put you in the fucking ground.  Next time, I’ll destroy you.”

And with that, they faded away into wisps of air like they’d never even been there.  Stiles raised a shaking hand to his throat and dabbed at the drop of blood there.  He forced himself to take a deep breath, he rolled his shoulders back, and then he carried on into the kitchen to get his fucking snack.


	22. Promises, Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the last tag. You've been warned.

 

 

“NO, PLEASE!”  She screamed, her arms outstretched in a futile attempt to shield herself from the blow.  “PLEASE!!!”  The shriek died on a gurgle of blood, and her body slumped to the floor, twitching as the blood pulsed from it.

“We love you!”  The other cried, arms reaching out in supplication.  “ _I_ love you!  I only wanted to serve you!”  Her eyes were bright with fanatic fervor, her lips trembling on the words.  “I only meant—!”  Her words cut off with a blow to the gut that turned the explanation into a gasp.  “P-please…”  Her fingers trembled over the gushing wound.

“You disobeyed me!”  Tate screamed, his fingers trembling on the grip of the axe.  “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?!”  He swung the axe again, the weight of the swing pulling deliciously at the muscles in his arms.  It was muscle memory by this point.  Perfect.  Therapeutic.  He buried the head of the axe in her belly again, deep enough that she had to cradle her own guts to keep them in.  She fell and slumped over, trembling. 

“I…I never….”  Her eyes were glassy with shock.

“I told you what would happen!”  Tate hissed.  “I promised I’d kill you for touching him!”  He swung again, and her fragile life slipped from her.  Her body fell back to the dirty concrete floor, tangling with the bloody limbs of Dallas and Bianca, already butchered.

Tate took a step back and lowered the axe, his chest heaving from the rage and exertion.  His fingers trembled, and he raised one arm to wipe his sleeve across his sweaty, bloody brow.

Behind him, Chad murmured, “This is a new level of fucked up, even for you.”

“I told them what would happen,” Tate whispered.  “They didn’t listen.”  He gazed down at the mess of blood and bone and entrails.  Then, without turning, “Where are the others?”

“Hiding.  They don’t want to get on your bad side right now.”  Chad waved toward the carnage on the basement floor.  “I don’t blame them.”

“But you’re not afraid.”

“Of you?”  Chad shook his head.  “Not anymore.”  They were silent for a while.  Water dripped somewhere in the basement, and a rat crawled across the floor in another room, sure to stay away from the frozen rage emanating from where the ghosts gathered.  Tate breathed heavily, fighting to regain control.  Finally, Chad said, “What are you going to do when they revive?”

Tate loosened his fingers and dropped the axe, so that the head struck dully against the concrete.  “Kill them again.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles was settled at his desk, reading through a stack of books, when Tate appeared in his room, a dark shadowy figure near the door.  Stiles rose from his desk when he saw him, though, his heart kicking up its pace in slight alarm.  He went to Tate, keeping his pace even and measured, but with a slight sense of urgency nonetheless. 

Tate stood rigid there, unmoving, muscles coiled so tightly he looked like he might break from forced nonchalance.  Stiles raised a hand to Tate’s cheek, but didn’t touch him, his fingers fluttering uselessly instead over the flecks of blood that marred his face.  “What have you been up to?”  Stiles murmured.

Tate’s dark eyes roved over Stiles’ obviously concerned face.  His own was impassive as he said “Just taking care of some things.”

Stiles nodded, deciding not to ask.  Instead, he cupped Tate’s neck and face with his large, warm hands and pulled him forward so that he could inspect him more closely.  Blood flecked across Tate’s face and neck, scattered like dark ruby stars, unashamed and unexplained.  Stiles leaned forward and licked some of the blood off Tate’s cheek.  Tate’s eyes fluttered shut and he moaned, so Stiles tightened his grip and licked the same place again.  Then Stiles moved forward, pressing the long length of his body into Tate’s, lining them up perfectly.  He kissed him, slotting their mouths together.  Tate opened up under his ministrations and Stiles slid his tongue into the other boy’s surprisingly hot mouth, taking the coppery tang of blood with him so that he could share it.  “God, you were right about the blood,” Stiles panted, when he pulled back for breath.  “It really is the best way to get the rage out, isn’t it?”

Tate growled, fueled by lust and frustration, and he spun them, slamming Stiles back against his own bedroom door.  He used his strength to hold the other boy there, and he grappled with him for a moment, finally pinning Stiles’ wrists against the door above his head.  Stiles let him, offering little resistance.  “I want you,” Tate panted against his skin, teeth dragging against the tender flesh of Stiles’ neck, snagging against the ridge of his collarbone.

“Then take me,” Stiles panted back.  “Come on, show me how you like it.”

Tate growled again, deep in his throat, and his blood fired, pounded through his veins.  He dropped Stiles’ wrists and instead used all his strength to heave the other boy up, his hands cupping his thighs and ass, and he pressed closer, so there would be no mistake about his intentions.  Both of their cocks were hard, and they pushed against each other desperately when Stiles lifted his legs to wrap around Tate’s waist, drawing him even closer.  Stiles mewled, his head thudding back against the door, when Tate reached forward, quick and nimble fingers working magic on their buttons and zippers until they were skin on skin.  Tate pushed forward, hips snapping violently, slamming Stiles back into the door again and again, as he rutted against him, the sharp sting of their colliding hip bones nothing compared to the hot, silky glide of their cocks working together, pushing them up, up, up.  They bit at each other and clawed, scoring nail marks across each other’s sides and backs.  It was rough and wild, and they drew blood, and it only made the sex that much better.

“Oh, God,” Tate panted, biting down against Stiles’ shoulder as he came.  “Fuck,” he hissed.

Stiles continued to ride the other boy, rolling his hips insistently against him, until a moment later he came too, his eyes rolling back and fluttering shut in pleasure.  He moaned, the sound tore out from deep inside him, and _yes,_ this is what he’d wanted, what he’d needed for so fucking long.  _This._

They held themselves like that for a while, panting in the damp space between them, until Stiles was finally able to unwind his legs and lower them shakily to the ground to get his balance back.  Tate released his hold and let him go, content still to feel their bodies slide against each other.  Stiles’ whole body continued to quake with the aftermath of his orgasm, so Tate tidied the both of them up, buoyed by his own endorphins.  When he finally gathered enough strength to look up and meet Stiles’ eyes, he found the other boy gazing back at him from under half-lidded eyes.

“That was hot,” Stiles said.  “I’d be up for round two later, if you want.”

Tate nodded, still feeling incredibly solemn despite the hormones pulsing through his phantom blood.  “Later,” he agreed.  “Right now I have other things I need to do.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dallas blinked, dizzy and disoriented, confused about where he was.  He rolled his head on his shoulders, slowly, side to side, and saw that he lay on a cold concrete floor, in a dimly lit room, and that Fiona and Bianca both lay with him, limbs flung out awkwardly in their obviously deep sleep.  _God,_ he found himself thinking, _that must have been a bad trip.  I don’t even remember how we got here._ He pushed his arms underneath himself and used his elbows to help steady him as he rose.  His arms and legs felt wobbly, weak.  _How long were we down here?_ He wondered.  He looked around the dimly lit room, exposed wires and beams snaking overhead.  _Basement,_ he thought.  And then a sense of panic flooded through him, and he thought again, more insistently, desperately, _basement!_ He looked down at his companions again and for the first time noticed the blood.  _Oh, God,_ he thought, clutching his belly and feeling the bile rise.  “They’re dead,” he gasped, his throat bobbing.  The words were an intrusion in the darkness, a betrayal.  “Oh, God,” he murmured, backing away from them. 

He turned, adrenaline kicking his legs into movement, desperate to escape the darkness.  He was almost to the stairs, almost there, almost… the promise of freedom so close he could feel it.  But then he heard the shuffle of feet, and a flash of light startled him, the glint of dim light on metal, as the head of the axe swung out of the darkness and he felt it like a dull _whump,_ right in his stomach, strong enough to knock him back a step.  And then a silky voice followed it, emerging from the darkest recesses of the basement.  “You didn’t think it was _over,_ did you?”  The axe blade was wrenched from his gut but a moment later it was back, burying itself again, and this time the pain came with it, burning hot and tearing through him, promising to bring him to his knees.  He stumbled back, the weakness already taking hold, over-powering his need to flee.  “We’re just getting started,” the voice promised.  And then the axe hit him again.


	23. The Basement

 

 

The axe shattered bone and blood flecked against the brick walls, dripping down stickily until it faded, again and again.  The others shuddered and drew back, into the corners, into the shadows, away from the gore and the ceaseless violence.  It was too raw, too crass, even for most of them.  The only one who dared to venture forth was Thaddeus, but a single dark look had him scurrying back into the recesses of the basement as well.

It became his own bloody den, a black hole of rage and darkness that swirled at the center of the house and pulled everything else toward it, inescapable, devouring.

He stood guard over the bodies, a still, dark sentinel, patient in the way that only cold rage and insanity can make a man.  Every time one of them so much as twitched, he brought the axe down again and snuffed their spark of life.

It was brutal.  It was unending.  It transformed him further, and the others sensed it.  Though they were terrified, they couldn’t resist the pull any more than he could. 

He wore blood like war paint, and he exhaled on every swing, sated, relieved.  This was just what he wanted, just what he needed.  He could feel their fear, thick on the air, and it gave him life. 

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles smiled and hummed to himself as he dressed, pulling on a soft gray tee and his favorite jeans.  He slipped on his dark blue Converse and laced them up tightly.  He studied himself in the mirror and added just a hint of product to his hair to give it a casual flip at the front.  _There, perfect._ His eyes were a bright honey color, full of life.  The dark circles had lately disappeared from underneath them, and he was sleeping better.  His cheeks held a rosy, healthy glow, and he felt good, whole.  He continued to hum to himself as he slipped his rowan bead rosary into his pocket and checked his reflection in the mirror once more.  Then he pushed out the door and headed for the basement.

 

* * *

 

 

 

He hefted the axe high, and it caught the last bit of light on its blood-crusted blade, dulling it, muting it, before he let the blade drop and it landed with a squelching noise among the gore.  He shook his shoulders loose, easing the muscles after the hours of exertion.  The scent of blood and death covered the mildew and stale, chill air.  His gravity ate the light, and he made himself comfortable.  He could do this forever.  In fact, he hoped that he’d be able to.

The bodies were still for the moment, dismembered and jumbled.  It’d be a while before those fuckers were able to pull themselves together again.  Tate rolled his shoulders and ran a hand through his sweaty, blood-flecked hair.  Then he turned, meaning to stretch his legs for a bit, but he paused, his breath punching out of him, and he dropped the axe with a dull clang.  “Stiles,” He breathed.  Tate had been so absorbed in his work that he hadn’t heard the other boy’s creaking approach, hadn’t noticed the stream of light that had obviously followed him down into the darkness.  “What are you doing here?  I told you never to come down here!”  Tate hissed, feeling his lungs lock down hard with fear and anger and panic.

Stiles raked his eyes over Tate for a moment, simply drinking him in, assessing, where Tate stood glued in place, all of his sins revealed by the streak of light from the open door at the top of the stairs.  Gore coated the floor behind him, and Tate knew there was nothing he could say to explain it away.  The axe lay heavy at his feet.

Stiles took a step forward, and Tate took a jerking, automatic step back.  His boot slid in a puddle of blood.  “I told you not to come down here,” Tate said, again.  It was all he could think. 

“Because this is where the very worst things lurk,” Stiles rehearsed, “yes, I know.”  He reached a hand out and ran it over Tate’s cheek.  Tate flinched at the touch, but it remained soft.   “I _know,_ Tate.”  Stiles murmured.  “I know everything.  It’s okay.  You don’t need to think of a lie.”  Stiles glanced past him, at the still bodies that had occupied Tate for the last few days.   “I know that you _are_ the darkness in the basement that you’ve always warned me about.  I’ve always known it.”

Tate moved away from the touch again, confused and feeling like he couldn’t get a good breath of air.  The basement suddenly felt too small.  “What do you mean?”  He barely even recognized his own voice.  It sounded helpless, weak. 

“Tate Langdon: In 1994, you ruthlessly murdered a number of your own classmates before you were shot to death upstairs in our room by a SWAT team.”  Stiles tilted his head, forcing Tate to meet his eyes.  He sounded blasé, listing off meaningless facts.  “You lit your mother’s boyfriend on fire as revenge for what he did to his family.  You murdered Chad and Patrick.”  Stiles paused for a moment, like he was listing off offenses in his mind.  “You try to control and intimidate the other ghosts.  You run Murder House, Tate.  I know that.”

“H-how?”  Tate croaked.  He felt the weight of all of those truths crushing him. 

Stiles smiled, just slightly.  “Well, my dad _is_ a cop.  It’s not like it was hard to find the case files.”

Tate swallowed convulsively, but he felt like something was stuck in his throat.  Maybe it was his own tongue, because it felt thick, useless, when he gasped “How long?  How long have you known?”

“The truth about you?”  Stiles feigned thought for a moment.  “Oh, since the beginning.  When I first realized the house was haunted, I looked into it.  You don’t really think someone who’s been through as much as I have would walk into a situation like this blindly, do you?  Oh no, I like to be prepared.”  Stiles laughed then, and it echoed weirdly, heavily in the basement.  Hidden in dark corners, the other ghosts withdrew, shaking, terrified themselves at the scene that unfolded before them. 

“And… and the rest?”  The words wrenched out of Tate’s throat, and he felt like he was choking on them.

“That you’ve been manipulating me?”  Stiles chuckled.  “Yeah, I’ve known that for a while, too.”

“Why?”

“Why did I let you?”  Stiles shrugged.  “You gave me what I needed.”  He took a deep breath and held his arms out.  “I feel better, actually.  Healthy again.  Good as new.”

“All this time,” Tate stammered, feeling his world collapse around him, “all this time, you were playing me.  But…you never came down here!  Why?!”

“I wasn’t ready, yet.  I was… contemplating the abyss, like you said.”

“Why now?”  Tate whined.  He felt himself begin to shake.  It was too much.  Too much. 

Stiles took a step forward and ran his strong, sure hands over Tate’s quivering arms, steadying, reassuring.  “Because now I know for sure that I’m the darkest thing in this basement.  There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so who saw that coming?


	24. Murder House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there....

 

 

 

“I’m leaving,” Stiles said, finally taking a step back from Tate. 

“Leaving?”  Tate felt a shudder go through him, but he could not tell whether it was fear or relief at this point.

“Going back home to Beacon Hills.”  Stiles folded his hands behind his back and began to casually circle Tate and the others, who were unmoving still.  “There’s nothing else this place can do for me, now.”  Stiles paused and looked down at the others, his eyes hardening just a fraction.  “But these three need to be dealt with before I leave.”  He looked up and fixed Tate in his stare.  “I won’t leave them behind to torment whoever moves into this place next.”

“What are you gonna do?”  Tate’s voice sounded hollow, like it wasn’t really his anymore. 

“I’m going to exorcise them.” 

An unnatural hush blanketed the basement, then, and Stiles knew that every single spirit in the house had heard and understood the statement.

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I’d like to ask you for a favor.”  Moira leaned against the doorjamb of his bedroom, her hands folded demurely in front of her.  She’d never been up to his room before.  At least, never while he was at home.

Stiles sat up on his bed from where he’d been reclining, doing some homework.  “Sure, I guess I sort of owe you one, don’t I?”  He smiled to let her know that he was teasing.  “What is it?”

She hesitated at the door but then came in, shutting it behind her.  “I heard what you said down in the basement.  We all did.  How you’re going to exorcise those three.”

“Yeah.”

“Could you….”  She huffed out a breath and rolled her eyes at herself, obviously frustrated.  “Would you do that for me, too?”

Stiles frowned.  “Exorcise you?”

“You asked me once if I’d leave, given the chance.  I said yes, and I meant it.”  She strolled forward, hips swinging, though he knew she didn’t even mean to be provocative.  She couldn’t help that other people found her beautiful.  “I’m tired, Stiles.”  She held her arms out, pleadingly.  “I’m exhausted of all the death and the pain, and the drudgery of caring for a house that was never mine.”

“I don’t know what happens to the spirits after.”  Stiles admitted.  “I don’t know where they go, or if it hurts.  I don’t have those answers.  I just know that it gets rid of the spirits.”

Moira nodded.  “I understand.  I’m willing to take those chances.  Whatever the result, it can’t be worse than an eternity of this.”  She sighed.  “So will you do this for me?”

Stiles nodded, solemn, and he felt something shift inside of him.  Something good, something solid, something wholesome.  “If that’s what you want.”

“I do.”  She sighed out the words, and her shoulders sagged with relief.  Stiles couldn’t even imagine the feeling.

 

* * *

 

 

 

They came for him while he slept.  They circled his bed, dark shadows, the very things of nightmares, clawed and fanged, carrying knives and bats, ready to tear him apart and kill him.  They would make him into one of them, they would keep him there forever, they would doom him to an agonizing eternity of haunting the same fucking walls with no reprieve.  Nora, Charles, Thaddeus, the twins, and the other three, now revived, circled around him, ready for the taste of his blood that they’d been promising for so long. 

It was the screaming that woke him.  He bolted straight up in bed, his blankets scattering, his eyes adjusting quickly in the dark.  Nora beat against the air, enraged, her eyes almost fiery at having been thwarted.  Her toes touched a line of salt, but she couldn’t move past it.  All around her, the others pushed against the invisible wall, angry and hungry, desperate to get in.  “Kill him!”  She shrieked.  “Kill him!”  There was a raucous of other voices then, as they rushed to do her bidding.  But they couldn’t get to him.

Stiles sat in his bed and watched them, his knees folded up to his chest.  “You won’t be able to get through,” he informed them tiredly.  “It’s ghost proof.”

“There’s no such thing!”  One of the twins cried.  The other added “The psychics could never get rid of us!”

Stiles shrugged.  “Everyone else was an amateur.  I know how to deal with ghosts.”

“You can’t make us leave!”  Bianca snarled, throwing herself at the air.  Nothing happened.  “You can’t get rid of us!”

“We’ll kill you the minute you step out of this circle!”  Fiona promised.  “Oh, we’ve got nothing left to lose now.  We’re going to rip you apart and leave you for him to find!  You’re gonna spend your afterlife as a pile of blood and bones!”

Stiles blinked at her, unfazed.  He didn’t even bother pointing out that she’d spent a good deal of her own afterlife in a similar condition.

“You cannot make me leave!”  Nora shouted.  “This is _my_ house and I won’t stand for it!  Do you hear me, young man!  I won’t stand for it!  Dirty little commoners like you, think you can do whatever you want to!  You can’t!  This is my house!”

Again, Stiles just sat there, and allowed them to get the rage out.  It didn’t matter what any of them said.  How they yelled or begged or threatened.  Stiles hadn’t been sure what to do with them, before, but tonight they’d made up his mind for him.  Hadn’t they learned yet that it was a bad idea to try to kill him?

“We’ll wait for you!”  Fiona promised.  “We will wait.  I promise you.  We have nothing but time.  But you… you need to eat.  And as soon as you leave, we will get you.”

“I thought I explained it,” Stiles said, making sure that he could be heard above Nora’s incoherent wailing.  “None of you can hurt me now.  And I will exorcise you.  Every last one of you.  If I were you, I’d enjoy the time you have left.”  Stiles narrowed his eyes.  “Now _go away.”_ He blinked, and then they were gone.

 

 

* * *

 

He kept his rosary around his neck when he descended into the basement, but none of the shadows stirred as he passed.  “Tate!”  He called.  “Tate, are you down here?”  He hadn’t seen the other boy in nearly two days.  “Tate!  I know you’re avoiding me, but we need to talk.  It’s important!”

“He’s probably hiding in the crawlspace,” Chad said, from the top of the stairs.  Stiles turned to look at him.  “Either that, or he’s in the attic with Beau.”

“Beau?”

Chad snorted and rolled his eyes.  “I guess you didn’t know _everything,_ then, did you?”  He sauntered down a couple steps, so that Stiles could see his face.  “Beau is Tate’s brother.”

“You think he’s hiding there?”

“Or saying goodbye.”  Chad frowned.  “As much as I hate that little psychopath, I do have to admit he’s always been good with his brother.”  He waved broadly.  “We all heard what you said the other day, and I’m sure Tate knows that you can do it, if you want.  I’m sure he figures he’s at the top of your list.”

“And you, what do you think about it?”

“I only hope that you’re merciful enough to put the rest of us out of our misery before you go.”  Chad’s face softened, then, and he said “And if you can’t find it in your heart to cleanse this place of all of us, at least think of Lorraine and the girls.  They don’t deserve to be here.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

He could have done it all at once, if he’d wanted to.  A mass exorcism in the basement, taking every single undead fuck down at the same exact moment.  But he knew it would drain him, and it he didn’t want to take the chance of it backfiring.  No.  He wanted to be thorough, he wanted to make sure that he got _every last one._

He started with the three murderers, those who were out for his blood the most.  They’d been prowling all around the house since Tate had disappeared and they no longer had anyone to keep them down.  In fact, Stiles was pretty sure Nora encouraged them constantly.  _She_ would put up real resistance when the time came.  But first—the murderers.

He found them in the basement—not surprisingly.  They were waiting for him, with knives and bats, bearing their teeth and cursing him.  But they couldn’t get close enough to hurt him.  He’d used the wards that Deaton had told him about, and protective runes were etched up and down his arms and across his chest.  His rosary hung around his neck.  They couldn’t touch him. 

They shouted and screamed at him, but he made short work of them, ignoring their threats and protests as he began one of the many incantations for exorcism that he’d recently learned.  It was his favorite, from the Rituale Romanum.  And as the angry spirits lashed out at him and hissed, he began the familiar chant, “ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_ _omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion_ _infernalis adversarii, omnis legio,_ _omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.”_

They resisted.  Of course they did.  But by the time Stiles was finished, they were nothing more than a fading echo in the darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

Nora was next.  She tried to gouge his eyes out, but it didn’t work, and in the end, he exorcised her too.  And then Charles, when he tried to defend her.  And Thaddeus after that, because he tried to take advantage of Stiles’ exhaustion.  But by the end of that first day, he’d cleared the house of six spirits.  And then he passed out.

 

* * *

 

 

He wasn’t sure what woke him.  It wasn’t a voice, or even a feeling.  Maybe it was another kind of awareness, the kind that you share with someone you’ve been close to for a time. 

When Stiles opened his eyes in the dim gloom of the room and rolled over, he found Tate sitting cross-legged on the floor, idly doodling in the air outside of the salt circle.  Stiles watched him for a while, silent.  But then Tate, without ever looking at him, or pausing, said “You’re awake.”

Stiles nodded and pushed himself up.  “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I know.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

Tate shrugged.  “Yeah, I guess.”

“I’ve talked to most of the others,” Stiles said.  Then, “I didn’t know about Beau.”

Tate raised his eyes sharply.  “He’s my brother.  He was always a good kid.  Sweet.  The world just didn’t understand him.”

“You’ve protected him this whole time?”

“I tried to,” Tate growled, “Since I failed him so much in life.”

Stiles nodded.  “What do you think is best for him?”

Tate frowned.  “What do you mean?”

“Would it be kinder to let him stay, or to help him go?”

Tate shuddered, and he wrapped his arms around himself.  “I don’t want him to be alone.  He’d be so lonely, if it was just him.  And the new owners, they wouldn’t understand.”  His lip quivered for a moment, before he bit down on it.  “I think it would be better for him if he was free.  Finally.”

“Then I’ll do that for him.”  Stiles crawled out of the bed then, and settled on the floor across from Tate, forcing the other boy to look at him.  Stiles reached out, carefully, and with a single finger, he broke the salt line.  “What do _you_ want, Tate?”

“You’re giving me a choice?”

“Yes,” Stiles whispered.  “I’m giving you a choice.”

Tate frowned for a moment and then he chuckled sadly, shaking his head.  “I guess that’s always been my problem,” he said.  “I don’t know what I want.”

“Think about it.”  Stiles said.  “You’ve got a couple days.”  Then he closed up the salt line again and went back to bed.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day it was the twins, who tried their best to kill him before they went.  And then a man named Hugo, who he found hiding in one of the spare bedrooms, and later realized was actually Tate’s father.  And then the nurses, who screamed and wept when it happened.

 

* * *

 

 

The Black Dahlia was barely a wisp the day after that.  She didn’t even realize she was dead.  And then Lorraine and the twins, who sighed and waved goodbye when it happened.  Stiles cried after that one.  He hadn’t even realized until he felt the tears slide over his skin.  God, he hadn’t cried in ages.  He stopped after that.

 

* * *

 

 

Later that night, he found Tate again at the foot of his bed.  Stiles pulled his knees to his chin and watched the other boy.  “I’ll be seeing Beau tomorrow, like you asked.”  Stiles said.  “I wanted you to know so you can say your goodbyes before then.”

“Thank you,” Tate said, and Stiles knew that despite being a liar, this time the boy actually meant it.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles had never bothered with the attic before, but it was easy to get to, and Beau was waiting for him when he got there, amusing himself with a red ball that he rolled back and forth from hand to hand.  He was hunched with a face that had been molded in such a way that it probably frightened most, but Stiles could _feel_ the nervous energy rolling off the boy and the hopefulness that sprang up underneath it, anyway. 

Stiles climbed up into the attic and settled there in front of Beau.  He smiled.  “Hi, Beau.  I’m Stiles.  Did Tate tell you about me?”

Beau sort of shrugged and nodded, but he kept back.

“I’m here to help you leave the house.  Do you want that?”

Beau whispered something that sounded like a yes.

Stiles smiled softly and he felt his heart clench.  “Why don’t you roll me that ball?”  Stiles asked.  Beau smiled shyly, but rolled it forward, and Stiles said “ _Exorcizamus te, omnis spiritus.”_ Stiles caught the ball, then rolled it back, murmuring, “ _Hanc animam redintegro.”_ Beau rolled the ball back, and he’d already started to fade by the time Stiles said “ _Purifica.  Purifica.”_ They played, rolling the ball back and forth until Stiles rolled it, and it didn’t come back. 

It broke something in him, or maybe it healed something instead.  Either way, he couldn’t bring himself to leave the attic.  He cried.  He wept his heart out, and it hurt like a bitch.  God, it was _pain_ and it was _joy_ and _relief_ and it was the purest thing he’d done in recent memory.  It burned a poison out of him, and left him a little bit emptier than he had been.

In the end, it was Tate who got him to leave.  Tate, who poked his head through the trapdoor, then crawled up into the attic and cradled him, and wept with him.  Stiles whispered “It didn’t hurt him.  We played, and he was smiling when he left.  I promise.”

Tate kissed his temple, and said “I believe you.”  They huddled together up there for a long time, but finally Tate wrapped his fingers around Stiles’ wrist and pulled him down the steps. 

 

* * *

 

 

They slept in the bed together that night.  It was hard to say which of them needed the comfort the most, but they both held each other tight and didn’t say a word.  It was the most honest they’d ever been with each other.


	25. Emissary

 

 

“Do you think that people can be forgiven?”  Tate asked as he exhaled a breath of cigarette smoke.  The evening was nice, and it was just the two of them out on the porch.

Stiles shrugged.  “If people can forgive, then people can be forgiven.”  He gazed out at the empty road, wondering how long it would be before his dad came home for the night.  “But I don’t think we _owe_ anyone forgiveness.  It’s just… sometimes it happens.”

Tate nodded.  “That’s smart.  I like that.”  He took another pull on the cigarette, held the smoke in, exhaled.  “Do you think people ever really change?”

Stiles laughed.  He couldn’t help it.  “I don’t know, man.  I’m still trying to figure that one out.”  He glanced at the other boy out of the corner of his eye.  “What do you think?”

Another puff of smoke.  “I don’t think so.  I think we always have the potential for every single thing inside of us.  Only, sometimes we choose to use it, and sometimes we don’t.  But we still have it.  It doesn’t go away.”  Tate flicked the last of the ash off the filter and ground it out on the porch rail.  “I’ve murdered some people,” he said, dropping the pretense he’d labored under for ages, “and you’ve murdered some people.”  He turned to look at Stiles.  “We could decide right now that we’re never going to murder again.  But it doesn’t change that we did, or that we _could,_ later, if we wanted.”

“So what?  We’re all terrible people who occasionally do nice things?”  Stiles asked, sounding affronted.

Tate snorted.  “Or we’re all good people who sometimes do terrible things.  Who cares?  All I’m saying is that I think we all have the capacity for both, and that it’s always in us, whether we like it or not, whether we choose to _use it_ or not.”

Stiles stared into the darkness, brooding on that thought for a bit before he finally had to concede, “Fine.  I guess that makes sense.”

“It does,” Tate agreed.  “You were always what you are, and I was always what I am.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They lay together on the bed again, Tate curled around Stiles’ back, holding him.  Stiles knew that the other boy could kill him if he wanted, that he was leaving that option open by showing him this much trust, but he couldn’t bring himself to do otherwise.  Whatever deceit they’d shared between them, they had an intimate level of honesty, too.  They’d shared violence, they’d laid their souls bare, they’d confessed their sins to each other, they’d broken each other down, and they’d gotten under each other’s skin.  They were both capable of causing each other a great deal of pain, even now. 

They were both still awake, laying in the darkness.  Stiles tightened his grip on the arm that Tate had thrown around his waist.  “Have you decided yet?”  Stiles asked.  It had been on his mind for the last 3 days.

“My life was pretty fucked up before I became a ghost.”  Tate murmured, breath ruffling Stiles’ hair.  “And it was even more fucked up after that.  But I was never alone before.  I don’t… I don’t know how to handle that.”  He sighed, and his arm tightened convulsively.  “If I stay, then what?  I haunt this hellhole for the rest of my existence, alone… or I finally crack when I can’t take it anymore, and I kill someone else just for the company?” He laughed, but it was a broken sound.  “Or I just… leave?  You said yourself you don’t know what happens after.  Maybe I go to Heaven, but I figure I’m probably slated for Hell.  Even that, I think I could handle.  But what if… what if… there’s nothing?  I just… stop…existing?”  Tate’s arm tightened again, almost painfully.  “That scares me.”

“Still… it’s a choice that you need to make before I leave.  It might be your only chance of ever getting out.”

“I think I just need to sleep on it.  Maybe that’ll help.”

“Okay.”  Stiles murmured, staring into the darkness.

“Okay.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was the first time he’d ever seen Chad and Patrick together.  The two of them stood in the kitchen with Moira, and they were smiling.  Actually smiling.  Their expressions were soft, but they were talking and all three of them were drinking glasses of wine.  Moira held hers like it was an extravagance that she wasn’t used to, but Chad of course held his like it was his right.  Stiles was sort of going to miss them.

“Are you sure this is what you all want?”  He asked, as he wandered into the kitchen to join them, his hands in his pockets. 

Patrick snorted.  “This is the first time in years that Chad and I have agreed on anything.  Yeah, we want this.”

“We wanted to thank you,” Moira said, setting her glass aside, “again, for doing this for us.  We never thought we’d be free, but here we are….”

Stiles nodded.  “I’m happy to do this for you.  You all helped me back on my feet… and I needed that, too.”

Chad smiled over the rim of his wineglass.  “You’re sort of good at this, you know?  The whole… guide for lost spirits thing… showing us our way to the other side.  You should keep doing it.”  Chad suddenly looked serious, as he so rarely did, letting his real emotions shine through his mask of bored arrogance.  “I’m sure there are others who need help from someone like you.”

Stiles nodded.  “I’m sure.”

He didn’t draw it out longer than he had to, because he already felt the weight of the action drawing everything he had from him.  The power of the exorcism reached down deep into his soul, deeper even than the darkness reached, and it dug and scraped, scooped and purged, and ripped something out of him.  God, parts of himself were torn apart and faded into the air with them, when he said the magic words and Chad, Patrick, and Moira vanished.

He had to leave the house, then.  He couldn’t even stand it.  He walked for hours, and he cried, and he wrapped his arms around himself, holding his own body together, and he sort of felt like he might be dying.  But then he remembered something that Deaton had said, once, when they and Scott were bent over the body of a wounded dog.  The dog had been whining, worse and worse, and Stiles had begged for Deaton to make the pain stop.  Deaton had looked at Stiles with his dark, kind eyes, so wise, even if Stiles didn’t give him enough credit, and he said “Healing is painful.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I don’t want to be nothing.”  Tate wept, rocking himself slightly on the bed.  “I don’t want to be nothing, and I don’t want to be alone.  Those things are worse than Hell.  Worse than anything you could ever dream of doing to me.”  His eyes were red-rimmed and Stiles knew he must have been going for a while.

“I don’t mean to be cruel,” Stiles said, feeling a lump in his throat.  “Not now.  I know I’ve done… bad things to you, but this isn’t one of them.”

“So many of them told me I was nothing, all the time, when I was alive.  I was never a good person.  At least I made a good ghost.  But… if I leave now, there’ll be nothing left.  Gone.  Erased.  And if I stay… I’ll go even crazier than I already am.  I’ll be worse than Thaddeus.  I’ll do terrible things.”  Tate raised his glassy dark eyes to Stiles, tears running down his cheeks still, and he said “If it was you… what would you choose?”

Stiles thought for a moment.  Really thought.  Despite what Tate was, he owed this boy a lot.  At least the truth.  “After the Nogitsune, I promised myself that I’d never let anyone make my choices for me again.  Not ever.”  Stiles wrapped his fingers around the rosary in his pocket.  “If it was me… I’d make my own path.”

Tate ran a sleeve over his eyes and sat up straighter.  “You’re saying there’s another option?”

Stiles shrugged.  “There are an infinite number of options for every single decision we have to make.  Sometimes we just have to work to see them.”

Tate nodded, clearing his throat.  “I know what I want, then.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Stiles stood in the basement and shivered.  He felt different now, but that was to be expected.  There was no going back from this.  They’d both made their decisions.

Around him, the house settled.  Finally, finally, it was empty and still.  Stiles dug his phone out of his pocket, pressed a button, and raised it to his ear.  He waited patiently as it rang, once, twice, three times.  And then Scott’s voice mumbled “ _Hello?”_ like he’d been sleeping.

Stiles smiled, just slightly, and said “Tell Deaton I’m ready to come home, now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occasionally, characters get out of hand and do what they want to, against the will of the writer. Stiles and Tate are both very stubborn, and they've decided that THEY AREN'T DONE YET. They've decided this should be a 'verse. So: good news! There's more to come.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes the darkness has to come out to play. Feel free to stalk my tumblr: http://realhunterswearplaid.tumblr.com/


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